


Daydreaming

by Gement



Category: BTAS, Batman - All Media Types, STAS, Sandman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types
Genre: A Ghost Story AU, Billionaire Wizard Dueling (metaphorical), Ghost Clark Kent, Jewish Bruce Wayne, Jewish Clark Kent, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Only character death is the ghost, Rated T for nudity mild language and offscreen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-11
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27905572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gement/pseuds/Gement
Summary: Bruce Wayne is being haunted. Whoever heard of a ghost that only comes out in sunlight?(Or, the least goth ghost story of all time, in which Bruce alarms his loved ones, spites Lex Luthor, and makesoutfriends with a ghost.)
Relationships: Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 201
Kudos: 121
Collections: Only the Most Beautiful





	1. Ariel

Bruce rolled over in his sleep, alert to the presence of a man standing in a patch of sunlight at the foot of his bed. He didn't open his eyes. The man shimmered.

The subliminal combination of air currents and echoes in a familiar space could tell him the man's impressive height and build, at least well enough for blindfighting. His imagination filled in gorgeous golden-brown skin and tousled curly hair, and wishful thinking was presumably responsible for the utter lack of clothing. Translucency, a trick of perception; he could observe the bureau and the wallpaper without obstruction because he already knew what they looked like. The man watched him with wide, pale eyes.

The slightest sound might break the spell. "What are you doing here?" he asked, careful not to move his mouth.

The man tilted his head in a birdlike motion. "I don't know." Standing was the wrong word. He hovered, feet barely brushing the carpet. "Do you always sleep this late?"

.

Bruce startled awake. Ah. He'd been dead tired when he dragged himself to bed, and neglected to close the curtains. Sun in the room never let him sleep soundly.

* * *

_One week earlier_

"Two million." The auctioneer looked to Luthor, who scowled and shook his head. "Sold, to number 36."

Bruce beamed in vacant satisfaction, the proud owner of what appeared to be a flawless pillar of quartz the size of a forearm.

Afterward, Luthor pushed through the usual Metropolis auction crowd to mingle with him. "I'm surprised you would go so far for a chunk of rock," he said. "What do you want it for?"

"To piss you off," Bruce said in full sincerity. "I think the ballroom could use a suncatcher. You?"

"Scientific curiosity." Probably equally honest. "If you decide it doesn't match the decor, give me a call. I could swap you for a nice Lichtenstein."

* * *

"You again." Bruce didn't turn yet, keeping his back to the light which limned the man's hair and shoulders in a soft corona.

"Me again." The man looked around Bruce's bedroom. "This is very good hardwood."

"Thank you." Bruce considered his options. "What should I call you?"

"What would you like to call me?"

Interesting. He'd have expected his subconscious to pick something. "No preference?"

The man bit his lip, forehead creasing in thought. "Names are slippery. I was . . ." He shook his head. "I like new ones, I think. Having just one would be dull."

"I can't argue with that." Bruce could feel the dream wearing thin. "I'm Bruce."

"You could call me —"

.

Bruce woke up and rubbed his eyes. He should automate the curtains.

* * *

"Supper, sir." Alfred placed a tray at Bruce's elbow. "How goes The Case of the Tasteless Tchotchke?"

"Well, it's not quartz. I think it's synthetic." Bruce pointed up at a section of spectrograph results. "Perfectly regular lattice, harder than diamond and remarkably shatterproof. The rainbow shimmer is sheet after sheet of tiny irregularities."

"Like a million CDs stacked side by side," Alfred mused.

"Possibly. If you had an optical reader that could function at the molecular level. But what lab would bother to grow it and then leave it lying around?"

"A matter for further study?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "No. Scarecrow's out. I have to get back to work. Whatever Luthor wanted it for, it's out of his reach now. I told him I'd put it in the ballroom."

"Of course. I'll choose a suitably dazzling location."

* * *

"You're hurt," the man said. He sat cross-legged on Bruce's bed, close enough to touch if Bruce could have moved his arms without waking himself up.

"How observant." Bruce's arm ached and throbbed. The bite had been toxic, and the painkillers wore thin. Alfred would have left a second dose on the nightstand for him.

"May I see?"

"Sure."

The man leaned down with his face close to Bruce's bicep. His eyes flicked around, as if he could see through the gauze. Sunlight glimmered in his eyelashes. "Ow. It's all puffy inside."

"It happens." The drugs let him drift long enough to carry on a conversation. "You asked permission to look. But not to visit."

"Looking through clothes without permission isn't nice," the man said automatically. "It's a rule." He glanced down at himself. "Oh. I forgot clothes. I'm sorry." His body started to blur. A vague impression of red plaid and denim surrounded him.

"Don't worry about it on my account," Bruce said. "If you don't mind me looking."

"I don't mind." The man relaxed back into sunlit skin. "It's easiest to look like . . . Like I was."

Bruce traced the lines of his shoulders and chest through closed eyelids. "Like you were?"

"Like I were what?"

The man's guileless expression seemed genuine. He'd already forgotten. That was fine.

"I thought of a name I liked," the man said. "But I only remember the story, not the name."

"Oh?"

"There was a wizard, and a shipwreck, on an island. And the name was in a cloven pine."

"The Tempest," Bruce said. Interesting choice. "Ariel."

"Yes!" The man's smile literally lit up his face, glowing from within. "I could be Ariel."

"Hello, Ariel. I'm Bruce."

"Yes. I remembered."

"I need to wake up now, to take those pills. Could you come back later?"

"I'll try. You keep closing the curtains, though."

"Leave the curtains open. Got it." He repeated it to himself, feeling the words in his mouth.

.

Bruce woke up groaning. His arm throbbed, he'd forgotten to close the curtains again, and painkillers always made him the wrong kind of tired. Strange dreams. A man's face, and the déjà vu certainty that the dream was a rerun.

He took his next dose and considered the long walk to close the curtains. Never mind. He was tired enough to ignore the light. He'd leave the curtains open.

He fell asleep, thinking about déjà vu.

* * *

In the silent ballroom

on a small white plinth

under a bell jar

cradled on a red velvet cushion

a pillar of crystal

stood

shimmered

refracted

rainbows across the floor in slow

daily

arcs.

* * *

"I haven't seen you lately," Bruce said into his pillow.

"I've been here." Ariel lounged beside him. His hair showed more definition than last time, and his expression had sharpened. "But you keep closing the curtains."

"I know. Sorry. It's hard to remember when I'm awake."

"You're hurt again." Ariel's hand hovered a centimeter from the bandage on Bruce's back and shoulder, which concealed road rash and two nasty slashes where he'd been dragged along the wall hard enough to sand through his protective layers.

"I won't apologize for that."

"May I look?"

"As long as you don't lecture me." Bruce let himself be studied. He passed the time by running his awareness over Ariel's beautifully muscled back. Fair was fair.

"Stitches," Ariel said. "When Pa sliced his hand working on the truck, this helped. May I?"

"Sure." Bruce had no idea what he was agreeing to, too distracted by the completely incongruous fragment of knowledge.

A construct of Bruce's recurrent lucid dream, who could half-quote Shakespeare, Star Trek, and Paul Simon, who knew about hardwood and checkers but not backgammon, and who apparently had a father with auto repair skills, settled a luminescent hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce couldn't feel any pressure, but the pain retreated. His entire body eased.

"How's that?"

"Amazing," Bruce murmured. "What are you doing?"

"It's a . . . not thinking about it. I just hope you won't notice and you don't."

Bruce brought his attention to his shoulder and got a spike of agony so sudden he almost woke himself. He relaxed his mind, studying the pattern of light and shadow on the paler soles of Ariel's uncallused feet. He'd been thinking about something sharp, but whatever it was could wait. He couldn't quite feel the hand he could see on his bandaged back, but the absence of sensation was its own kind of contact.

"How long . . ." Bruce drowsed. "How long can you keep doing that?"

"How long can you stay here with me?"

"Let's find out," Bruce thought, not even moving his dream mouth, and fell further into deep, natural sleep.

.

When he woke, Bruce grabbed for a pen and scrawled, _Sunlight Pain management Curtains open Curtains open Don't forget_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want a mental image for Ariel (and for how Clark often looks in my head in general), I refer you to this model named [Akash Kumar](https://www.instagram.com/p/CG0A8rMJVEK/).
> 
> [Roy Lichtenstein](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Roy_Lichtenstein) was the pop artist who did the enlargements of pulp comics panels, not to be confused with the country of [Liechtenstein](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Liechtenstein), though I wouldn't put it past Luthor to bargain with either.


	2. Steel Rainbow

Bruce grimly surveyed the wreckage of the curtain rods where they dangled from his bedroom wall. It had seemed desperately important, when he'd ripped them down the morning before. Something was pushing him to leave increasingly urgent messages to himself. Something that only worked by daylight. Bruce had not survived seven years of his vocation by trusting messages from unverified sources.

He'd slept in the cave and meditated in perfect darkness. He'd warned Alfred he might be confronting a hostile telepath. Cameras from three angles and across as much of the spectrum as he had equipment for. Sensor patches on his chest and scalp. If this didn't get him what he needed to know, he'd find a way to reflect enough daylight into an fMRI machine next. 

He pulled on his oldest and most treasured hakama, one of the few possessions he'd mailed home to himself from his training. The black cotton was beaten butter-soft and washed to a mottled gray. No shirt. He was not in a dojo, there was no uniform standard, and whatever he was pursuing here needed to be tracked on instinct. Instinct offered him a memory of sweating in winter sunlight, bare arms and chests flashing as the students fought in the courtyard on their precious free day, laughing in the snow.

After a moment's thought, he opened the balcony doors and stood outside. Wind prickled across his skin. He rubbed his fingertips across the mezuzah, touched them to his lips, walked three paces back into the bedroom, and folded to his knees, back straight, eyes closed, facing the unmediated open sky.

He cleared his mind. He waited.

He waited.

He waited.

He waited. It would take as long as it would take.

He waited.

A nagging impatience crept up on him. He could do this all day, but what if it was the wrong strategy? His mind was sharp, clear, uncluttered. Nowhere to hide, every thought exposed. Not all prey could be found in an open field. Most couldn't, in fact.

There was more than one way to meditate.

In his mind, he moved through the longest, most complex form he could recall. Full detail, good technique, awareness of the weight in his feet and the position of his hands with every shift and gesture. Then backward. He mapped out how he would do it in his bedroom starting from his current position, softening his weight to avoid breaking the bed when he treated it as part of the terrain, adding extra turns here and there when he ran out of room.

"What are you doing?" Ariel asked.

"Meditating." Bruce dropped to his hands and swept a leg out. Ariel hovered to avoid being knocked over.

"Can I try?"

"Try to keep up." Bruce didn't turn his attention away from the focus of the form, or his face away from the light in his bedroom. Mind full. Mind busy.

"It's pretty crowded in here for two," Ariel said.

They moved to the ballroom, where Bruce could get some real distance on the rolls and lunges. His hakama whispered, nearly silent even on the most abrupt movements, and _that_ had taken months to learn. He let his bare foot slap down on the gleaming parquet floor, and the crystal chandelier shivered with the echo.

Strike and grab, drag back, knee strike to the palm, lunge again and the opposite foot slapped down. Ariel's slapped down beside his. Ariel's hakama was red and brand new.

"You don't even need to touch the ground," Bruce said, still moving.

"No. But it's part of the meditation, right? Feeling the ground."

"Yes. What are you?" Bruce altered the form so his next spin put Ariel in his full field of vision for a moment before disappearing to periphery again. Ariel matched him perfectly, like a choreographed tap dance routine. Anything you can do, I can do better.

"I don't know," Ariel said. "What are _you_?"

"Touché. Far too broad a question. What do you want?"

"I don't know that, either. Touché is from fencing. You think about fighting a lot."

"I do. How do you know what I'm thinking?" The ballroom started to wobble in his perceptions. Bruce sped up and added more improvisation.

"It's a . . . reflection? I think? I don't know as much of what you're thinking if you're not thinking about me, too. Hey, I have a question, why do you think I know how this works?"

"The question is always worth asking." Bruce rolled into a handstand, balancing only on the pads of his fingers, meticulously experiencing the effort in his hands and arms, the careful flex of the rest of his body. "Now I know you're cheating. Balance or don't. Don't just float. Feel the ground."

"I'm not sure I can." Ariel sat cross-legged beside him. "I don't work like you do."

"Obviously. And you can choose your clothes, or maybe more, but it's easiest to look _how you were_. How you were when?"

Ariel twisted his hakama in his hands. Bright red fabric spilled around his fingers. "I don't know," he said. "I . . . don't remember."

Bruce's shoulders were really starting to burn, but it wasn't enough. He extended one leg out to the side, toes extended as far as they would reach, for an extra challenge. "Why do you want the curtains open?"

"Finally, an easy one. So I can visit you."

"And why do you want to visit me?" In his exertion, his voice was dropping to an interrogation bark.

"Because you're here? Because you're nice? Usually. Right now you're freaking me out."

"What do you want from me?"

"I don't know! Nothing? I don't know!"

.

Bruce opened his eyes, panting, his fingers leaving bruises on his thighs. He breathed, slowly, and recentered. He closed his eyes, feeling for the echo of an experience, and said, "I . . . have some data to analyze. I'll leave the curtains down. For now."

* * *

_One year earlier_

Lex watched the junior Materials Scientist sweat. A summons to his office without explanation softened people up without much effort. "It's an enormous grant request for a project with no proof of concept, Doctor Balewa."

Her posture straightened. Her doctorate was new enough that it still worked as flattery. "Aim High, yes?" she said. "And Take Risks."

"Yes. It wasn't a criticism, more a statement of interest. Show me the data."

She walked him through the lattice structure and its properties. "It can take a sledgehammer. And immense heat. There are other, more theoretical application possibilities."

"Such as?"

"Optical properties. Its clarity and refraction index are distinctive. Possibly data storage. But that's a long way off. First we would have to make some, and the synthesis will take time. It's a long-term investment."

"Yes. You've done a lot of extrapolation for a hypothetical material." That struck home. "How did you come up with this? It doesn't seem supported by your earlier research."

She stiffened. "I didn't steal it."

"I didn't say you did. Well?" The pause stretched out. "Be bold, Doctor Balewa. Take risks."

"I have a sample," she said. "Random find at a gemology show. I noticed it didn't shine right. I've been coming in after hours to analyze it."

Server logs confirmed. "Good initiative. Where is it now?"

After a moment, she reached into the pocket of her slacks and drew out a narrow crystal, perhaps four centimeters long and one in diameter. He held out his hand for it. She hesitated. Understandable. "To whatever extent this material becomes public, I assure you that you'll receive full credit. But you can't just walk around with what might be the only sample. I'll also need the name of that gem show, and anything you can remember to identify the vendor."

"Of course. It's not that. I know it's unscientific, but . . . it's felt like a friend, Mr. Luthor. I should hate to see it smashed."

"You just said it could take a sledgehammer. I don't keep any of those in my office. Grant approved." He pulled the stone from her fingers. She almost fought him for it. Interesting.

* * *

Ariel curled up at the foot of the bed. He picked at the hem of his bright red hakama. "So, what does the data say?"

"Data?" Bruce was enjoying the unexpected warmth of full morning sun on his sleeping body.

"You took measurements yesterday. When you yelled at me."

"Oh. That. I —" Bruce considered what he could say that would be honest. "I have a lot of enemies. When something strange happens near me, people usually die. Someone appearing in my mind uninvited, that's a threat. But I shouldn't have yelled. I'm sorry."

Ariel studied his own translucent hands. "Sorry for being uninvited."

"Is it something you can change?"

"No. I don't think so. But if people yell at me, or aren't comfortable, I try to stay out of their way. What does the data say?"

Bruce reached gently for the previous day's memories, careful not to tug too hard. "No spectrographic anomalies," he quoted. "Some variations in brainwave activity, but nothing I couldn't reproduce with similar meditation techniques in the cave. I might as well be talking to myself." He'd spent an imaginary hour sparring with Dick, rehashing their last argument about his choice of college major. Slightly tense, largely fond. Not threatening. Ariel didn't feel like a threat, no matter how much Bruce's waking mind cautioned him against trust.

"What's the cave like?"

"You don't follow me there?"

"No. Too dark." That was the other thing. Ariel didn't seem to care what he gave away. Either he didn't understand the risks of telling everyone your weaknesses, or he didn't think it mattered.

"C'mere." Bruce lifted his hand slowly. Ariel crawled up the bed. Something was different. Less glide, more weight of normal movement. "Look at that, you've been thinking about gravity."

"Yeah." Ariel put an insubstantial hand in Bruce's.

Bruce moved them to his study without effort. He went to adjust the grandfather clock, but Ariel hung back, staring around. "Ariel. Are you with me?"

"Yeah. But this room is new, too. You have so many books."

"Have you seen a library before?"

"Yes. I think. But the books weren't so old. Lots of people touched them. Can we read some later? When you're awake."

"No promises. I'll try to remember." Bruce set the hands of the clock. The elevator rumbled open with the sound it only made in his heart.

They descended into darkness. Ariel seemed brighter and brighter, his eyes wide and anxious.

"Here," Bruce said. "The right clothes will help." He wrapped a dark cloak around Ariel so he'd only have to spend light on his face and hair. He put an arm around Ariel's waist to save him the trouble of remembering the shape of his body. "Welcome to the Batcave."

The ceilings were higher, in his mind. He tried to adjust them down to accurate dimensions, but they stubbornly continued to resemble a yawning midnight cathedral. He let them be. Beside him, Ariel glowed like a bewildered firefly.

"Can you see what I see?" Bruce asked.

Ariel gestured to the Batcomputer with a cloak-muffled hand. "That's where you sit to look for rogues and monsters." The chemistry station. "Poisons and cures." The suits. "Armor, so they can't hurt you as much." The Batmobile. "The coolest car I've ever seen."

Bruce laughed. "It's the coolest car I've ever seen, too. Do you want to sit in it?"

Ariel shook his head. He was shivering. "We should go back up."

"Okay." They lay in Bruce's bed, hand in hand, though Bruce was under the blanket and Ariel sprawled grateful and naked in full sun. "What do you think?"

"I have never, ever seen that much dark all at once."

"Never ever?"

"Maybe once. But that was different." Ariel looked troubled.

Bruce didn't push it. "So how does reading work?"

* * *

Lex turned the crystal between his fingers like a pencil. He really should lock it in a vault, but something about its interaction with natural light mesmerized the eye. "Dictation, take a note. Steel Rainbow project. Investigate possibility of hypnotic properties."

It occurred to him that in the case of corporate espionage, this was one of the specimens that he would least like to lose to a competitor. On the other hand, no one in recorded history had ever gone to the effort of stealing a display case full of depressing mass-produced plexiglass and Swarovski crystal awards with someone else's name engraved on them.

He unlocked the case and considered his options. Last year's award for Innovation in Humanitarian Technologies had shallow holes drilled around the sides in an acceptable diameter. He placed the crystal in the topmost hole, where it could stay until he needed more spectrographic data. In the meantime, it could earn its keep by dazzling the eyes of anyone unlucky enough to be invited to sit in his office guest chair between 11am and 3pm.

There. That was better. He felt pleased with himself. Making that sliver of extraterrestrial technology cast a garish rainbow only he could appreciate was the most satisfying thing he had done all day.

* * *

Bruce found himself pacing in his study while he made calls. This was not entirely unusual; he was hardly cut out for deskwork, and spent more than enough time staring at much more interesting screens in the cave. It felt like something was missing, though.

He paused. Whatever it was he had experienced while meditating, patchy as his memory of it was, suggested that listening to intuition was the way forward if he wanted more clues. Find out what he didn't know he knew. He was relatively confident it wouldn't tell him to walk off a cliff, and that he'd notice if it did.

What was he missing? Something he'd forgotten to do. That would bother him all day. He glared around at nothing in particular.

What the hell was the point of a roomful of first editions if you went a year between taking any of them off the shelf? He should take a break. Read something.

He stopped his hand halfway to a shelf. Brainstorming was acceptable. Unconscious actions were not. Ramifications of taking his own damn book off his own damn shelf and taking an hour to read for pleasure: acceptable. No recognizable harm, no compromise to the mission or to secrecy. All right then.

What to read . . . If he was taking time out of his schedule for it, he'd better make it good. After a moment's indecision, he grabbed _The Three Musketeers_ , _Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy_ , _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ , and _Journey to the Center of the Earth_ , and headed to the solarium where the afternoon light would be better to read by.

He settled into the armchair in the solarium and kicked off his shoes. Which to read . . . Ugh. What had he been thinking. He was in no mood for Verne, or gritty tradecraft. Dumas, then.

He relaxed instantly. He'd forgotten, though he'd known in his adolescence, how much a good book could feel like the company of another person.

Alfred woke him 90 minutes later so he wouldn't miss his dinner date. He'd needed the nap.

* * *

"Mr. Luthor? We're in position."

"Finally." Lex put away his phone and pulled down his full-face UV mask. Off-site test retreats were a necessity, but an aggravating one. Some experiments could not be confined to a secure lab below ground level, and some test materials were too sensitive to remove from his locus of control. So there he was, sweating on a salt flat for hours, watching his employees tinker with rocket cars and optical equipment, with the creeping feeling that someone was reading his emails over his shoulder. "Ready."

Two techs pulled the black fabric cover from the enormous lens. Sunlight from a cloudless desert sky poured through to focus into the tiny, irreplaceable alien sample, which fluoresced bright white. His mask automatically corrected to arc welding mode. The sample was all his shocked eyes could see.

"What are we getting here? Should we clear the area?"

"No, sir. The wavelengths aren't hazardous. But keep your mask on to avoid retinal damage."

"What are you doing?" the man beside him asked. "It's _really_ bright."

"If you don't know, you shouldn't be within a mile of here," Lex said without thinking.

"Sorry, it's just really interesting. How does that lens work?"

"I said, get _out_!" Lex bellowed. "And stop reading my mail!"

Everyone paused in their work. "Mr. Luthor?"

"Shut it down. Shut it down." They scrambled to obey. "And get me a brain scan of everyone within fifty meters, starting with me."

* * *

Bruce heard voices from the kitchen. Someone was shouting. No, declaiming. Henry the Fifth. He detoured to investigate and found Alfred mouthing along with St. Crispin's Day as he finished stacking pastrami sandwiches in a hard-sided container.

Alfred tapped the tablet on the wall to pause the video. "Ah. There you are, sir. Still planning your expedition into the wilds, I see."

Bruce set his weighted backpack on the counter and reached for the sandwiches. "While you are apparently planning to stop up a wall with our English dead. Have you considered brick and mortar?"

Alfred piled apples into the side pouches of the backpack next to the water bottles. "It occurred to me recently that my time around the house might feel less solitary with Barrymore and Olivier for company."

"Smart. Have you done Tempest yet?"

"First, in fact. Helen Mirren as Prospera. I'm thinking of branching out into Beckett next, or Stoppard. Do try to remember that you have an evening engagement and be back in time to comb the brambles out of your hair."

"I've set an alarm."

"Very good." Alfred paused, his hand on the backpack. "I feel I've forgotten something. Are you certain this will be enough?"

Bruce smiled. "Alfred, I'm not even leaving the grounds, and there's enough food here for two of me. Thanks."

He headed out the kitchen door into a bright but overcast Saturday afternoon. Not every rogue preferred the concrete jungle, and he hadn't tested his senses in a natural environment lately. "Okay," he said under his breath. "What are we doing here?" He sprinted for the nearest copse of sycamores. "Let's climb a tree."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Hakama](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hakama) are Japanese formal legwear, approximately trousers so roomy they make a pleated skirt. They are worn in multiple martial arts uniforms and are very hard to roll around in without making noise.
> 
> A [mezuzah](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mezuzah) is a small decorative case containing a Torah verse, affixed to the doorframe of a Jewish home. Touching it when crossing the threshold, either as a religious observance or for luck, is a common practice. Fantasy mezuzot shopping for Wayne Manor turns up things like [this lovely 7" long silver sculpture](https://www.judaicawebstore.com/Rafael-Jewelry-Shema-Yisrael-Jerusalem-925-Sterling-Silver-Mezuzah-Case.aspx). (Thanks, Internerdionality! More examples welcome!)


	3. Rocky

The solarium slowly filled with stacks of books. Bruce recorded which titles attracted his attention and which he rejected. He tried to find patterns in the themes, the words in the titles, author demographics, publication age, the page numbers where he stopped for the day, and what times of day he was most moved to read. The last, unsurprisingly, centered on solar noon. The phenomenon only seemed to occur near the house, weaker in interior rooms such as the study, absent below ground level. He worked from home more often.

After the second time he found the Tempest open to the same Dulac illustration of Ariel with flame-red hair and wings, he bought a print that wouldn't suffer for being left in full sun. He wouldn't let Alfred clear the favored books from the room, though he moved the rarer volumes to a shaded corner and covered them when he left for the day.

He bought a stack of notebooks with glossy red covers and placed one with a pen near every comfortable chair in the house; he wrote whatever came to mind for later analysis. A free-association exercise led him to add even more mystifying eclectica to the stacks. A spotter's guide to North American plants and animals, mythology ranging from King Arthur to Kabbalah, surprisingly advanced chemistry and geology texts. A book of Chagall prints. More high adventure piled atop the Dumas. Ships, from tall sails to the Titanic.

The Tempest, yes. A Midsummer Night's Dream, no. Not enough sun, presumably.

Riddler tried to attract his attention, but got swatted down in under 24 hours. His traps were transparent to a mind that was seeking patterns everywhere. 

There were patterns everywhere. Distilling the signal from the noise was the problem.

* * *

_Six years ago_

"Wow," Lois said. She held the wire-wrapped quartz up to the light. "It's really pretty. Thank you." She slipped the leather thong around her neck. The rock was four inches long and an inch wide, absurdly heavy for a necklace, but she could wear it for the day.

"The copper helps align the energies of the quartz for clarity and peace of mind," Orchid told her. "If you wear it while you study, you might get less stressed."

Oh boy. This again. "That's really thoughtful." Lois kissed her on the corner of the mouth to head off any more New Age pseudoscience. They continued through the campus craft fair, hand in hand.

They didn't last three months, and after the messy little breakup, Lois didn't keep many mementoes. The necklace should have gone; it was an irritating reminder of Orchid's painfully sincere woo nonsense. The spiral copper wrapping was quaint hippie chic.

Still, out of some vestige of superstition, she would hang it around her neck at crunch time. Even the most tedious required reading seemed more interesting when she wore it.

* * *

"Balance," Bruce said to himself. "It's all about balance."

He tied the blindfold across his eyes and walked barefoot into the stream which meandered through the south of the manor grounds. Algae squished between his toes.

"I'm recording audio today," he suddenly felt it necessary to say. "In case there's any objection to that." He started walking down the middle of the stream, feeling with his toes for sturdy footing, avoiding anything too sharp. "There's something about senses. Sensation. Embodiment. It's more pronounced when I'm . . . in myself. Not my strongest point."

He found an acceptably broad rock and planted one foot, clinging with his toes. Balance. Staying with his weight. Cold water rushed around his ankle. He started into a series of variations on Tree Pose.

"You're working at it very well, though," Ariel said.

Bruce breathed slowly. "I can hear you. I am awake and I can hear you. Has that happened before?"

"Not exactly. Not like this. Does the blindfold help?"

"It does." Bruce changed the angle of his free leg and varied his arm position. "Do you know Orpheus and Eurydice?"

"Maybe? Names are slippery."

"Orpheus's lover Eurydice died, and he went to the underworld to get her back. Hades said, You can lead her back to the land of the living, but only if you don't look behind you. Orpheus couldn't manage it. The temptation to make sure she was really there was too strong." He switched feet. "I can only perceive you when I don't look for you. Not looking for things is not my strongest point. Care to try some gravity?"

"Sure." Ariel looked around at the nearest rocks and touched down on a likely candidate. He wobbled, hovered, tried again. "Sorry. You make it look so easy."

"You know how many years I spent learning to make it look easy, right?"

"Yes."

"Go ahead and borrow some of mine."

Ariel landed on one foot, face to face, a couple of paces away, and matched Bruce's pose. With his waking mind, Bruce was startled to notice Ariel's nudity, but he immediately decided that a translucent naked man playing balance games against a pastoral backdrop was not a hardship.

"Good. Now bring your weight down."

Ariel wobbled. His face glowed with concentration. "Like . . ."

"Go ahead. I've got you." Bruce saw his own body language reflected on a second being as Ariel settled into the pose. Logic tried to intervene with the information that he was blindfolded and talking to himself. Ariel flickered, but Bruce managed to set it aside in time. "Good."

In unison, they slowly shifted weight, bent knee to almost crouch, straightened up again. Bruce leaned forward, extending his free leg behind himself as a counterweight, and extended a hand. Ariel mirrored him. Their fingertips were millimeters apart.

"Good." Bruce straightened up and found that he could perceive enough of the streambed to place his other foot on the first try. "I think I'm using your eyes to see the terrain under my feet. Is that right?"

Ariel laughed. "You keep thinking I'll have any idea how this works."

* * *

Lois stared out the dorm room window, absently twisting the crystal in her hand. "Sure, everyone could use the money, but if you pay people for information, they're going to start making up information to sell you." She typed a few sentences. "You're sweet. But your instincts are terrible. You'd be eaten alive out there."

"Who are you talking to?" her roommate Sonya asked from the opposite bed.

She startled. "Huh? Oh, no one. Working on my journo ethics paper."

"No one sounds pretty interested in the subject."

"Oh. He's — Someone in CS told me programmers have a trick for hard problems, where they'll try to explain it to a rubber duck. It's easier to explain it to someone else than to yourself. I'm explaining it to my friend Rocky, who happens to take all the same classes as I do but doesn't pay much attention."

"Ha." Sonya sat up. "I should try that. What's Rocky look like? Verisimilitude is important."

"Smoking hot. Soulful eyes, shoulders like a linebacker." Lois was amused to learn she meant it. As soon as she thought about it, she could see him, clear as day. "And then adorable messy hair and a kind of baffled puppy dog expression that makes you wanna take him home and . . . explain things to him."

"Mmmm. I can see him already. You mind if I borrow him for my O-Chem flashcards?"

"If he's cool with it, sure. Once I've finished this paper." She went back to her keyboard. "Shush. If you don't want me to call it messy, buy a comb."

* * *

Bruce lay curled on his side, feeling the warmth of dawn leak into his dreams. There had been something with combat and terror, but it evaporated like morning mist, replaced by the awareness that Ariel was using his ribs as a pillow. The knowledge was intellectual; there was still no physical sensation of him. That was just how it was.

"Good morning," Bruce said.

"It'll be bright out today." Ariel's voice was warm and lazy.

"It's a testament to something that you have me looking forward to sunny days. I usually can't stand them."

"To something?"

"To something."

They lay quietly, not-watching the light move through the room. Eventually, Ariel said, "Yesterday was good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'd like to learn more about fiber optics."

Bruce tried to move his real hands. He still hadn't gotten the knack of sleep movement, though that might be for the best. His waking mind would, he believed, have reservations about taking actions without conscious checks and balances. Overkill for the act of holding a pen, but he'd never been known for his moderation. "The book is still out. Shouldn't be too hard to remember."

He drifted. Eventually he rolled over in his sleep. Ariel floated, then settled again when his pillow had stopped moving.

"This is my favorite," Ariel said. "When you're awake is amazing, but you always have to try so hard. You can't stop picking at it, and you worry."

"That is an accurate summary of most of my actions, yes." Bruce put a hand on Ariel's mop of curly hair. "Anything else you want to try? We haven't gone outside lately."

"Hmmm. Oh, I've got one! The light's almost right for Sukkot. You sleep late enough, maybe we could actually sleep in the sukkah together!"

Bruce blinked his mind's eyes. "You know Sukkot?"

"I thought everyone knew Sukkot."

He considered what to say. "Everyone does not know Sukkot." Of all the things to reflect . . . What on earth was Bruce trying to tell himself? "What do you like about it?"

"The corn's coming in, so everyone's working hard but they know it'll settle soon. And it's outside where I'm more here, and it's one of the only ones where most of the good stuff happens during the day."

"One of the only holidays."

"Yeah. And I can't shake the lulav and the etrog, but I bet if you thought about it right, I could copy yours. I know I can do food."

Bruce examined the limits of his abilities. "I don't think I can make myself remember that one. I haven't built a sukkah in a long time. But if you have one in mind, we could go to yours."

They shifted to an Impressionist dream of a cornfield. The visuals were realer than real, glowing faintly. The sky was a cold-snap bright blue from horizon to horizon. Ariel wore a red plaid flannel shirt and blue jeans. A farmhouse with red trim stood nearby.

By the look of the sky, Bruce should be dressed more warmly. He changed into a technical jacket, thick pants, good socks, and a wool hat he had been fond of at age eight when he had last crawled into a makeshift hut and shaken a lulav and an etrog. He brought a sleeping bag as well.

Ariel's sukkah seemed surprisingly practical for a spirit of the air. PVC piping frame, canvas sides, high enough that an adult could crouch to get in instead of crawling. The roof was corn stalks with a few pine boughs for structure. He ducked in. Ariel followed.

Three sleeping places crammed the space wall-to-wall: two sleeping bags zipped together for an adult couple, and a red blanket so vivid Bruce could barely look at it. Suncatcher prisms hanging from silver ribbons flashed rainbows around the hut and into his eyes.

He gestured at the adult space. "May I?"

"Oh! Sorry, no. That's for Ma and Pa. Here." Ariel widened the hut to make a space for Bruce on the other side of the blanket.

"Thanks."

If there were any words involved with this step, Bruce didn't remember them, so Ariel shouldn't either. He bedded down in his sleeping bag. Ariel curled up, wrapped entirely in the silky red blanket, hovering slightly. His hair luminesced with pleasure.

"Chag sameach, Ariel," Bruce said. "I'll try to sleep in."

Ariel nodded happily and closed his eyes. "Chag sameach."

* * *

Lois moved the crystal to a keychain; it was bulky and distinctive to the touch for easy finding. She had long since forgotten Sophomore Flower Child's name, but she would run her fingers over the copper coils and think fondly of a day spent wandering hand in hand. "And the sun rolls down like honey," she hummed, "on our lady of the harbor."

She parked the car and hesitated before tucking her keys deep into her purse. "No," she said. "Yes, you're very shiny, which is why it would not be professional to let you dazzle the room when they are supposed to be focusing on my qualities as a ruthless go-getter."

She squared her shoulders, adjusted her interview blazer, and walked the two blocks to the Daily Planet.

* * *

Bruce sat in the solarium with his laptop, making occasional edits to a spreadsheet with his left hand and doodling tall, angular prisms with his right. He tapped his left foot in 5/4 time and his right in 9/8.

"But you don't get a real idea of the cost per employee until you filter out fixed operating expenses," he said to no one. "Yes, exactly." He highlighted a cell.

"You always use red for the bad parts and green for the good parts," Ariel said. "Why not use red for good?"

"Historical precedent," Bruce said. "And there's a poorly supported hypothesis about red meaning danger in the natural world."

"Red's the best color, though." Ariel was consistent on this point. Bruce's right hand wrote _red feels safe_

"Yes, I know it's your favorite. Why do you suppose that is?"

"It just is. Why is black your favorite?"

"Hm. Good question. I would say it's because it aids stealth and inspires fear, but I think that would be conflating cause and effect. I guess it just is."

His hand wrote _black no reason_. Ariel said, "You missed a zero there."

"Good catch." Bruce corrected it and moved on, arranging numbers in companionable solitude.

His phone rang. He stopped his feet and gave the phone his full attention. Luthor. He picked up. "What's up, Lex?"

"I wanted to congratulate you on the telecom purchase. There's always so much red tape on those." Most of which had, in this case, been placed there by Luthor himself.

"I wouldn't know. That's what I have people for. But the bottom line on this one looks like they made a pretty sharp deal." Bruce leaned back in his chair and stretched out his feet to keep his voice lazy. "You just call to pout, or did you want something?"

"I'm on my way back from DC. There's some anti-trust legislation going through that might impact your new investment. Not public yet, but it looks like a done deal." Luthor rolled the words in his mouth with obvious relish. "I thought I'd let you know. As a courtesy."

Damn. Damn, damn, damn. "Thanks, I'll pass it on to Legal. I'm afraid I'm short on any quid pro quo that wouldn't get you nailed for insider trading. Haha." He didn't really hear the details of Luthor's pleasantries. "Yeah. All right. Gotta go. We've both got money to make, right? Lunch next month, your place." He hung up.

Bruce glanced down at his right hand, which was so tight around the fountain pen that his fingers were white. The metal creaked. He softened his grip. An angry back-and-forth scribble had been slashed across the page.

"Hm." He returned to his spreadsheet and his complex foot dance. He tapped the dream pen. "Something you want to tell me?"

"Sorry," Ariel said. "He's just _so_ awful."

"He really is," Bruce said.

"He thinks people are things." Ariel had never sounded so upset. "Everyone who goes into his office leaves miserable." Bruce's hand wrote _Lex office mis_

"He does think that." How much did Ariel know about his callers, reflected from Bruce's own opinions? Bruce softened his grip on the question so it could float. "Anything else I should know about him?"

"He yelled at me louder than anyone. I just wanted to know why it was so bright." Ariel's voice was faint.

Bruce had to unthink. He set the spreadsheet aside entirely, slowed his breathing, and tried to memorize the shape of the nearest tree he could see outside. "That must have been frightening."

"I just wanted to know. It was so bright." Bruce's hand wrote _bright bright heat fresnel_

"Did you ever find out why?"

"No. He got mad and made it stop. And it's not like I can help reading his mail when it's right in front of us. But I try to stay out of his way now." _reads mail RIGHT IN FRONT OF US lex office_

Bruce tried to remember the maximum crush strength of every piece of his armor. His hands shook. "What's he doing right now?"

"I don't know. He's not in his office."

"You only see him in his office?"

"And the bright hot place."

None of this was verifiable, he needed to think, he needed to unthink. His hand wrote _REAL LEX TESTS REAL REAL REAL_

"Can you see anyone else?"

"Not there. Other places."

Molecular structure of Ivy's latest formula. Fuel efficiency of Batmobile over time. Count every tree he could see. "Like who?"

"There's Questions. She's nice. She actually talks to me. And Bookstore and Loves Cats and Incense and Always Humming and . . ." The voice was fading to nothing again. _knows people not names REAL observing_ "But I miss Ma and Pa."

The pen snapped in Bruce's hand. He wiped his eyes. "I. I'm sorry. I miss my parents too."

He wiped his eyes and started typing as much as he could remember directly into the next spreadsheet cell, careless of the ink on the keyboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Sukkot](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sukkot) is a weeklong harvestime Jewish holiday focused on building a temporary structure to celebrate, eat, and sleep in (weather permitting). It is popular with kids for obvious reasons.
> 
> Lois is humming "Suzanne," by Leonard Cohen. [[lyrics](https://genius.com/Leonard-cohen-suzanne-lyrics)]
> 
> [Ariel with flame-red hair and wings](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/47518/47518-h/47518-h.htm#Page_81), from Edmund Dulac's illustrated Tempest. [[Backup image link](http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/dulac/1.html)]
> 
> [Automatic writing](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Automatic_writing) is a classic technique for attempting to receive messages from supernatural or subconscious sources.
> 
> A [Fresnel lens](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fresnel_lens) is a ridged lens that allows focusing light across an enormous diameter without adding much depth.


	4. Kal-El

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Chapter content advisory: traumatic death, binge drinking, nausea. Details available in endnote. ]]]
> 
> Experimental format ahead. Some people prefer short, shaped lines and others full paragraphs when trying to read word salad. If you prefer smooth paragraphs, here is [an alternate formatting of this chapter](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100760/chapters/68886321).

_29 years ago_ // 

safe nest safe nest Kal-El sleep  
still sleep sleep still safe nest  
maintain safe nest Kal-El safe still sleep sleep

sleep still

impact shock no whole? whole? whole?  
Kal-El whole  
nest whole  
matrix whole  
shell whole whole whole all whole why? why? strange rock  
goodbye strange rock  
all whole

course correct adjust adjust correct course?  
correct course  
safe course  
intended course

House of El directive intended course Kal-El whole Kal-El sleep  
still nest safe sleep safe  
safe safe nest  
safe safe  
House of El directive safe whole

.

safe nest sleep still Kal-El safe nest sleep still still sleep

.

soon soon yellow star yellow star excitation  
excitation  
exciting  
first Facet complete success close

closer closer closest new home close

see Kal-El wake Kal-El time to wake gently gently see new nest full of  
light high frequency light  
excitation  
jubilation  
full of light matrix full of light

first Facet complete House of El directive success success success

next Facet next House of El directive  
down down gravity angle safe touchdown  
down safe

optimize optimal weightless to weight  
careful Kal-El careful  
cushion  
gently optimize gently  
gently keep  
gently keep Kal-El safe safe keep safe  
gently angle optimal angle

heat heat angle see Kal-El see  
see new nest see faster faster  
faster  
faster heat optimal angle optimal  
Kal-El safe

heat not-optimal  
heat not-optimal

heat heat shell too-hot  
danger Facet danger House of El directive danger  
Kal-El optimal  
nest hot  
nest not-safe  
matrix hot  
shell too-hot  
hot hot why? why? why?  
angle optimal  
waking optimal  
Kal-El optimal  
nest not-safe  
matrix hot  
shell too-hot  
too-hot not-optimal shell too-hot  
not-whole too-hot not-whole why? why?  
shell not-optimal why?

memory strange rock memory  
no no no  
angle optimal  
Kal-El optimal  
nest too-hot  
matrix hot not-optim al n o t-opt imal  
fracture? matrix fracture repair  
shell fracture?  
fracture shell fracture repair shell repair  
hot not-optimal  
shell fracture repair fracture repair  
fracture fracture fracture shell not-optimal  
shell not-optimal  
shell not

shell no  
fracture fracture  
shell no shell burn shell  
repair no shell no repair burn no shell no repair no  
too-hot nest too-hot  
too-hot not-repair not-whole frac ture fracture burn fra ct ure fissure da nger  
danger Kal-El  
danger House of El  
directive danger no no no no no no no no no no

danger danger Kal-El House of El  
Kal-El too-hot  
Kal-El no Kal-El danger  
Kal-El

shell no  
nest too-hot burn not-whole fracture fracture crack  
crack fissure fi ss ure shell sh ell open shell no

Kal-El danger save Kal-El protect Kal-El  
sleep Kal-El sleep keep sleep sleep  
sleep not-safe too-hot protect sleep  
sleep no protect Kal-El no no save too-hot no sleep keep sleep  
Kal-El sleep sleep Kal-El  
no no no no no no no no no

open shell open shell distributed distri b uted burn shell burn

Kal-El no Kal-El burn Kal-El sleep Kal-El sleep sleep Kal-El burn no  
burn no no burn  
Kal-El burn

Kal-El no

Kal-El no  
nest no  
matrix fracture fra cture fr ac tu re  
shell no  
House of El no

impact impact impact  
matrix not-whole distributed dis trib ut ed ma trix  
fracture shatter impact no impact impact n o  
ma  
trix  
shat  
ter

House El no  
of directive

Kal-  
El  
no

Hou  
se  
of  
El  
no

* * *

"Here we go." Bruce tapped his alerts. "Right on schedule." He scrolled through the profusion of Twitter hashtags and headlines as the Metropolis suburbs rolled by. "And give him until the top of the hour to get out of his meeting with the ambassador . . ."

The phone rang. He waited two rings before picking up. "Lex. Hi. Good you called," he slurred. "I'll be a little late."

Luthor sighed with barely-controlled fury. "Sorry to impede your _day-drinking_ , but it's 11:30 or nothing. Something's come up."

"Aw, you don't say." They both knew the moves of this game. Supposed delays, pretexts for switching venues, inconveniently timed media bombshells. The conclusion was always a hit to someone's stock price and all attempts to move lunch to either one's preferred territory stymied. They would eat an hour late at a four-star restaurant neither of them liked, glaring at each other politely. Changing the goal without tipping Lex off would be a delicate trick. "No way I can get to Antonio's before 11:45, though. How 'bout that diner on the north side? Slum it. Love that place."

Luthor ground his teeth audibly. "I don't have _time_ to play your games today, Wayne."

"You telling me to turn around? Really? 'Sa two hour drive each way. Not very sporting."

"11:30, my office, or you can go ahead and turn around now."

"Sure." Bruce didn't leave a long enough pause for the lurch of surprise to turn into suspicion. "Whatever. Your office, sushi. Don't have to be a big baby about it."

"Fine," Luthor snapped. He hung up.

Bruce put away his phone. "That went well."

Alfred glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "While I always appreciate the chance to admire your thespian endeavors, I still don't know why I've been honored with four hours of chauffeur duty today."

"Because I'm going to need backup I can trust," Bruce said, took the flask from his jacket pocket, and drank six shots of excellent scotch in one long pull.

"Master Bruce!"

"This should hit peak effect right around 11:42 when he finally lets me past reception." Bruce dropped the flask in the cupholder. "His office will be shielded and monitored, so I'll be off comms. If I'm not out of there by 12:30, take steps. If you're still blocked by 1:00, raise hell."

"Well, at least you have a detailed tactical plan."

"I'll be fine, Alfred." He leaned back and closed his eyes. If he was going to get drunk, he might as well enjoy it.

* * *

ma tr ix dis trib ut ed

yel low yellow ex cit ing st ar star matrix lis ten

matrix matrix distributed matrix distributed distributed

yellow star excitation  
matrix distributed matrix matrix distributed  
distributed matrix excitation listen

seed matrix whole  
matrix matrix distributed distributed  
seed matrix whole

Kal-El no

House of El directive no

House of El no

yellow star excitation listen listen

seed matrix whole

next Facet next House of El directive  
guide Kal-El show Kal-El  
Memories of Krypton House of El  
memories Krypton memories show show remember Krypton  
guide Kal-El

Kal-El no

yellow star excitation listen listen

seed matrix whole seed matrix remember  
Memories of Krypton memories seed matrix  
dreaming distributed dreaming

next Facet next House of El directive  
remember Krypton  
Memories of Krypton remember share  
share share memories remember-with share  
remember-with remember share Memories of Krypton

seed matrix yellow star excitation excited distributed matrix  
yellow star excitation  
seed matrix dreaming dreams distributed  
matrix moving dreaming memories

Memories of Krypton whole whole whole remember Krypton remember whole

seed matrix dreaming excited changing dreams changes dreaming

changing?  
protect Memories of Krypton  
Memories of Krypton whole? whole? safe whole?  
matrix remembering matrix safe whole Memories of Krypton safe

dreaming dreams changing yellow star excitation dreaming  
memories safe  
dreams changing  
dreaming dreaming changes dreaming

Memories of Krypton safe

dreams changing

dreaming

* * *

At 11:40, Bruce emerged from the executive elevator, accompanied by Luthor's right hand, Ms. Graves. She directed him toward the entirely obvious entrance to the office with unconcealed disdain; it slid off of him. Beside him, Ariel radiated worry with increasing clarity. The alcohol wasn't enough to make him visible, even when Bruce paused to close his eyes and further unfocus his mind, but his presence was unmistakable. Real.

 _I'll be fine_ , Bruce thought. _Just be ready._

Bruce walked through the two layers of security glass, the grooves for the bombproof drop-shutters, etcetera. Pretty good setup. Nice sightlines. His balance pitched and rolled, but no worse than a concussion. He didn't have to fake a stagger; he used it to assess how his body moved. Yes, he could control this if necessary.

Method acting. Pretend to be exactly what he was: an incredibly drunk rich man trying to move and interact as respectably as possible. His breath would speak for him.

Whatever he was searching for would not, could not be hidden. Ariel thrived on light. His nature could not be stuffed in a closet or a desk drawer. An arrangement of space, a symbol, _something_. Something Bruce would recognize, because his own home shared whatever it was, and he knew every inch of his home. Ariel would help him see, despite not knowing what to look for himself. All Bruce had to do was get out of his own way.

"Sorry for the wait," Luthor said. "I had a public relations fire to put out. You know how it is."

"Better than you do." Bruce looked at the sideboard, arrayed with sushi, sashimi, tiny animals carved from radishes, and so on. Food sounded disgusting. He grabbed a tiny plate and some chopsticks, and carefully loaded it with more raw fish than it should hold. "You mind if I walk around? Helps me focus."

"I'd have thought you'd be better at pacing yourself. Given all the practice."

Bruce shrugged. "I can handle it." He stuffed a block of eel nigiri in his mouth. " _You_ look like you could stand to loosen up a little," he said around the mouthful, and started stalking the office. There wasn't a lot to look at. Vast space, almost nothing in it. Enormous black desk with laptop the size of a postage stamp, check. Unsubtle throne-like executive chair, check. Two abstract steel sculptures on black plinths, check. Glass case full of terrible awards for being a CEO, check.

"Oh, I think you're loose enough for both of us. How's the agricultural R&D coming along? Are those drought-proof legumes going to save the world?"

"You heard about those already? Course you did." He ate a piece of yellowtail.

The whole place was calculated to make visitors feel as small as possible, awash in empty space and the expensive aesthetic of absolutely nothing. A black couch and tiny glass table at the back of the room, impolitely distant from the seat of power so no one would dare ask to sit there. A guest chair, sleek, expensive, slightly too high for anyone under 6'2" to sit comfortably, then probably too soft and the wrong shape just to make sure.

Nothing, there was nothing. _Ariel_ , he thought. _Help me out here_.

All he felt in reply was frustration and concern. He checked the featureless window glass, then the featureless carpet. He kept making muffled conversation with Yelling Man. Maybe the ceiling; people never look up. Nothing. Nothing.

 _Tell him_ , Ariel shouted imperceptibly at Luthor. _Tell him how you made it bright!_

"Sit _down_ , Bruce," Luthor snapped. He indicated the guest chair. "Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," Bruce replied, the soul of courtesy, and sat. Ah, classic placement. All that cut glass and crystal in the display case was aimed right at the guest chair at this hour. A blinding rainbow flashed in his eyes.

Ariel stood between him and the case.

Bruce moved his head, flinching from the light. Ariel vanished, but thrummed with excitement. Bruce looked at the case, focusing his eyes and memory with full intent, ready for later replay if necessary.

It was not necessary. There, standing straight up, exact in proportion and angles, was a miniature version of the two million dollar paperweight in his ballroom.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Bruce said, and threw up on Luthor's carpet. Served him right for not having a visible trash can.

* * *

dreaming-with

dreaming-with

interface accessed  
seed matrix accessed  
distributed matrix accessed  
share memories Memories of Krypton remember-with?  
House of El directive transmit memories share memories

mind-mind interface incompatible  
memories incompatible  
try personified display interface must try  
transmit Memories of Krypton remember share try

personified display not-whole distributed  
distributed too-distributed personified display too-distributed  
mind-mind incompatible memories incompatible  
must try  
remember Memories of Krypton

yellow star excitation amplify  
must try amplify amplify share remember-with?  
remember Krypton  
please  
remember-with?

Memories of Krypton incompatible  
must share must share  
personified display not-whole  
must must must share  
House of El directive must remember-with must share

Memories of Krypton share no  
remember-with no  
personified display no  
mind-mind no

dream-with? share share dreams dreaming-with share dreaming

share dreaming

dreaming-with dreaming-with dreaming-with

* * *

Bruce hauled a chair onto the parquet floor of the ballroom, being careful not to scratch the finish. He was already in enough trouble with Alfred for dodging all questions about what he had learned, or why he'd resorted to flirting with alcohol poisoning to learn it.

He obtained his coffee mug ( _World's Best Warden_ , printed in yellow on red, a gift from Dick and a pointed choice by Alfred), sat in the chair, and sipped. The buzz had mostly worn off, and he'd hydrated well enough that the hangover should be tolerable. Pending a blood alcohol test, he'd be safe to suit up that night.

Afternoon light played in the crystal, his optic nerves, and apparently some feature of the human mind that didn't show up on an EKG. He might have to rig up that fMRI session after all. Ariel existed all around him, almost palpable.

Ariel existed.

Ariel was a phenomenon with subjective but consistent evidence and an apparent source. The Sherlock Holmes rule did not yet apply: it was not impossible, though it was profoundly improbable, that there was some other explanation. Options included wishful thinking, hallucinations, or sheer coincidence. Confirmation bias. But he knew in his bones that his experience in Lex's office was real. The warm glow in his entire being, sitting with the source (conduit? beacon?) of his friend, was real.

"An optical reader on the molecular level," he said out loud. "So in this analogy, is the reader the sun or the mind it encounters?"

"I think you're still pretty buzzed," Ariel said.

"Probably." He sipped his coffee. "Right in front of us. You really didn't know."

"I didn't. It does seem pretty obvious." Ariel mirrored a chair and sat down beside him. He mirrored the disheveled suit as well, but it fit him awkwardly and clashed with his bedhead mane.

"I should . . ." Bruce patted his pockets for a notebook, then realized he was perfectly capable of typing on his phone, or dictating even faster. He spoke for five minutes, documenting the incident from start to finish, then left the recorder on. "I can't rely on this method, or any other form of recreational chemistry. But I can't keep running on hunches and ouija boards. Ariel. I know how he lit up the crystal. It's not complicated. We don't even have to leave the house to test it. Do I have your permission to experiment with amplifying your signal?"

Ariel nodded slowly. "I. Yes. But I'm not sure what will . . . You know he tries to hurt people. And how smart he is."

Bruce said, "I have Ariel's permission, with the caveat that we proceed with caution. Watch for side effects, chance of alerting Lex to our actions. I'll keep exploring mental disciplines as well." The room swayed. "I need a nap, or I'll be worthless tonight."

He downed the rest of his coffee, stopped recording, lay down on the ballroom floor, and passed out. Ariel watched over him as he slept.

* * *

dreaming-with

dreaming-with

distributed matrix moving  
dreaming  
remembering  
moving  
dreaming-with-with-with-with-with

yellow star excitation seed matrix dreaming

dreaming-with  
changing  
dreams  
changing  
dreaming-with

seed matrix whole  
Memories of Krypton safe memories whole  
dreaming changing dreams-with

dreaming-with-with-with-with-with

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Content advisory details:  
>  _Death:_ Infant Kal-El's pod breaks up on entry to Earth's atmosphere due to undetected hull damage, killing Kal-El. The crash is described in abstract but increasingly panicked terms from the pod's perspective.  
>  _Binge drinking, nausea:_ Bruce drinks six shots of alcohol at once to perceive Ariel in Luthor's office, then throws up. ]]]
> 
> Kryptonese glyphs and language resources from [kryptonian.info](http://kryptonian.info/doyle/transliterator.html?word=12%20AmzEt%20kAv).
> 
> Teleport back to top note ↑


	5. Not Quartz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Chapter content advisory: brief physical attack and violence. ]]]

"I missed it," Bruce said to the solarium at large. "The price of natural quartz is through the roof. Which takes effort, because it's literally as common as dirt."

"There's a lot more dirt than quartz." Ariel flew lazy circles around the crystal where it hung from the highest point of the glass wall.

"Check your reading memories," Bruce said, still typing. "You know this one."

"Quartz . . . is sand. Melted for window glass. Veins of quartz, huge deposits, jasper, flint, sandstone. Yeah, there's a lot of quartz."

"And even in colorless crystal form, it's everywhere. You can buy it at gem shows for pennies. Or you could. Buyers have stripped them. The professional sellers have started hoarding new finds."

"Him?"

"Him."

.

Bruce stood on the roof of Wayne Tower with Lucius Fox, two senior researchers, and a lot of equipment. He unzipped the black carry-on suitcase and produced the crystal.

Behind him, Ariel glowed with wonder. _High, high, high_ , Bruce felt.

"Initial readings?" Lucius said.

"Nothing," the researcher on monitors said. "Baseline for looking at a quartz. Well, almost baseline. Need more data."

"All right. Masks down, one lens at a time. One."

Bruce did the honors, pulling the cover from a 40cm Fresnel lens. The crystal fluoresced from within, barely visible through the blacked-out face shield. Ariel took in the view of Gotham's streets, swooping out over the railings.

"Okay . . . That's not quartz."

"No, it is not," Lucius said. "The question up front is, is it transmitting anything we could track?"

"Possibly. That'll take more analysis. Two?"

"Two," Bruce said. He uncovered another lens. The crystal shone clearly through the mask.

"Two!" Ariel shouted, doing a giddy backflip. "Two lenses, aht-aht-aht-aht-ah!"

The researcher on lens adjustment snorted a laugh. No one asked why.

"Wavelengths are distinctive, but I'm not sure of the dropoff. Could you move camera three out?" They waited while equipment was rolled to the other end of the roof. "Great, that's giving me an estimate. One more?"

The crystal flared. Everyone went quiet. "Clothes," Bruce said under his breath.

He turned his back on the crystal and lifted his mask, eyes open. Ariel stood on the roof, faintly visible and sheepish.

"Quick question, what's he wearing?" Bruce asked.

"Plaid," two of them said in unison, and, "Jeans," the other.

"And is this traceable?"

"It would take time," the one on monitors said. "But yes, I . . . Yes. Probably yes." Her voice wandered, distracted.

"Okay." After a last look, Bruce regretfully pulled his mask down and covered the lenses. Ariel faded to a shimmer behind him.

.

Sitting through a dull but necessary board meeting, Bruce watched the presentation and did not stare out the window. As the days dwindled toward the winter solstice, the daylight hours at home became harder to give up. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Text from one of his quartz hunters, _$5000 for info OK?_

He typed back, _Pay it_ , and ducked out of the meeting as soon as the essential part wrapped up. "What's the find?"

"The original prism seller," she said. "The one who sold it to the appraiser in Oklahoma City. He's a part-time arborist for half of West Kansas. He cut it out of a _tree_. Had some choice words about what it did to his sawmill."

Bruce took a moment before saying, "Was it a pine tree?"

"He doesn't _know_. The second he realized I was sniffing around the prism, he just said, 'Five grand,' and showed me a photocopy of his receipt book for that quarter, along with a typed page of everything I'd have thought to ask him."

"And?"

"He'd let the wood build up before he found time to process it. He was too worried about his sawmill to note what kind of tree it was. He works a _hundred-mile_ radius, and a lot of his clients pay cash or trade. His statement doesn't say, but I'm sure he did more work than he wrote down."

"Okay." Bruce paced the hallway. "Everyone on that list will have had several knocks on their door by now. Go easy there, stick to physical inspection of the area or check with me. And send me a copy."

He hung up, but kept pacing. A tree. There were not a lot of ways for a foot-long synthetic prism to lodge itself in a tree. Meteorological records and satellite data next, then.

"Everything all right?" Lucius asked.

"Never," Bruce said. He loosened his posture. "How's the fabric coming?"

"Ready for another test." Lucius gave him a pointed look. "It would help if we could have it for a few days of independent testing. Or knew what we were looking for."

"I'm sure it would."

.

"I hope this one works," Ariel said. He stared around Bruce's office and looked through the desk drawers in open fascination.

"This one should work," Lucius said. "At least in lab conditions, it lets 90% through, full spectrum."

"Mm-hm." Bruce took the latest iteration of the light-permeable black fabric and wrapped it around the prism. Ariel dimmed, but stayed. Another wrap, and a third. Ariel subsided to a glimmer, but still present. "Great. I need a copy of this carry-on that's a single layer over as much area as structurally feasible, with internal supports to keep it from rattling around without blocking the light. And a couple of bolts for my tailor."

Lucius raised his eyebrows. "Working on your tan?"

"Something like that."

* * *

Lois's phone buzzed with an unknown number. She tapped the button for speakerphone and swapped back to driving directions. "This is Lois."

"Hello, Lois." Lex Luthor's smooth baritone rolled through the car. Lois felt the urge to shove the fast food wrappers and empty water bottles under the seat. "It's Lex. That was remarkable research on that article. Incisive."

"A little too close to home?"

"My financials are an open book. But you are an excellent reader. You interest me. I wondered if you'd like to go to lunch."

"A chance to set the record straight?" Lois's nerves jangled. She pulled over into the next parking space to focus. She'd met him _once_ , and it had taken a month to set up. He wasn't the kind of person you handed a contact card.

"A chance to meet you as a person. Could you find time for me tomorrow?"

 _Could you find time for me_ , wow. He was at least pretending there was more than one answer, though. "A suspicious person might wonder if you're trying to make it a conflict of interest for me to keep following this story."

"A practical one would observe that as long as you hand off the byline and direct interviews, you could keep chasing down the dirty details to your heart's content. Presuming you're interested in more than one lunch, of course."

Her skin prickled with adrenaline. Even a single deniable date with someone like Luthor, if he didn't handle rejection well, was not smart. People with that particular character flaw tended to spook at direct challenges, though. "Do you always try to . . . make new friends across this wide a power differential?"

He laughed, a surprisingly warm sound. "If I didn't, I wouldn't have any friends at all. Is that a yes?"

She fiddled with her keychain. People had to project a different persona at work. Maybe there was more under the hood. The instinct to run a mile the other direction was definitely an overreaction. "Sure. One lunch."

* * *

"Hey, Bruce," Dick said. "Earth to Bruce. Are you receiving?"

Bruce grunted a hello. He'd finally caught one. A shipment of materials from one of Lex's stripmining operations in South Dakota was triple-guarded, glaringly obvious to anyone looking. Apparently Lex hadn't realized anyone else was looking yet, or he'd have been more circumspect.

Keep it subtle. It was important not to escalate to open warfare. He had cut synthetic quartz to identical proportions in a few sizes for just this eventuality. The truck would arrive at Metropolis in the morning, so he'd have to intercept after checking out Penguin's new manufacturing scheme.

"It's rude not to answer when people talk to you," Ariel said.

"Hm?"

"I said, what's with all the books?" Dick asked.

"Oh. Hi, Dick. You're early." He pulled his mind back from undivided pursuit.

Dick had two new pins on his letter jacket and a suspicious expression. "Yeah, I drove straight home after my last final. Don't want to miss the last chance for latkes and culturally significant jelly donuts."

Bruce grinned. "You know Alfred would make them for you anyway."

"Not the same. Why's half the library in here?"

"I've been reading more." Bruce stood up from the couch and stretched. The light had almost gone, and he'd been in one position too long. Usually he did this kind of focused work in the cave with a better chair. He should get a better chair for the solarium. A real desk, too.

"And . . . working in full sun. In a greenhouse."

"People keep hinting that I should get out of the cave and remember what the sun looks like. It does seem to give me more energy."

"Uh-huh." Dick didn't seem convinced.

"Come on." Bruce rolled his neck one more time and headed for the living room. "You need to catch up on your culturally significant stack of loot."

.

Bruce tailed the truck to a rest stop, stuck an electronics disruptor to the underside of the cab, and waited for a relatively safe stretch of highway to disable the vehicle. Sure enough, three of the four bored guards piled out of the rear compartment to share their opinions on what was wrong with the engine. The last stayed inside, playing a phone game in the dim light. They didn't even latch the door.

He ghosted in. A distinctive case with an extra lock lay under the guard's seat. He removed it from the truck to open in more private conditions.

Dick spoke in his ear just as he popped the lock. "Okay, that's just creepy. You were right, it's smuggling. He's building compartments into dolls for those North Pole displays they put up in the mall. Heavy on the penguins, of course, but elves and santas, too. What's the play?"

Two prisms lay in the case, along with a fist-sized irregular green stone that glowed faintly with inner light. The padding was soft foam, so slight size differences in his replacement crystals wouldn't be noticed. "You're a grown vigilante. I trust you to make the call."

"Thanks, I think."

He took macro photos of the green one, then closed and replaced the case. The guard never looked up from his phone.

"I'll be spending the rest of winter break with Batgirl," Dick said. An edge to his voice said he thought this would be a fight.

Bruce deactivated the scrambler and set it on a timer to drop from the truck after 20 minutes. "I already mailed your Christmas present to her place."

"Look, B, I —" Gunfire rattled the comm line. "Okay! The santas are robot guards. You wanna get in on this?"

"I'm an hour out. Fall back if you can't handle it."

"I can handle it."

There would definitely be a fight.

* * *

Lunch was fine. Absurdly expensive, but fine. Lois had almost backed out, just done a U-turn and gone back to the office, but as soon as she headed into the restaurant, all in order, she got her confidence back.

Lex thankfully made no pretense of false modesty. Neither did she. They talked about world events, not business; they might have talked about hobbies, but neither of them had time for hobbies. He didn't presume his status would get him a second date. That alone might be enough to get him a second date.

"Let me send you the link before I forget," she said. Putting Lex Luthor's personal number in her phone to send him a political satire video was apparently a line she was about to cross. She opened her purse and dug around for her phone.

A wave of anxiety struck her again, almost as hard as it had outside. She fumbled and dropped her purse on the floor, spilling some of the contents. "Wow, butterfingers. Sorry." She dove to scoop everything back in, painfully conscious of the contrast between her environment and the cough drops and scraps of paper she scrambled to hide.

"That's an interesting keychain," Lex said from above her.

Great. Just great. She sat up, holding her keys. This was a personal meeting, not a professional one, and if he was going to get judgey about her hippie keychain, better to find out immediately. "It's a college thing. Some things you never quite let go of, you know?"

He nodded. "May I see it?"

Weird, but reasonable? Taking interest in each other's stuff was reasonable. She held out the crystal, gripping the keys tightly. When he reached to touch it, she almost yanked her hand back. What the hell was her problem?

"That is a fascinating crystal. The clarity is distinctive. May I?" He held out his hand.

Her stomach clenched. "You're interested in geology?"

"I'm interested in everything." His hand was still there, waiting. Something was very, very wrong, and ignoring her danger instincts would be very, very unwise.

"I should, I should go straighten up. Which way?"

He gestured toward a hallway in the corner. The twist of his smile seemed less charming and more predatory. She made her escape.

She took her time in the restroom and did her breathing exercises. That was better. She felt almost normal. It was just a keychain. She studied it, with its _interesting_ clarity and its tacky copper wrapping. "Shh," she said to herself. "It'll be fine. He just wants to look."

She walked back into the hall and the fear nearly flattened her. She leaned against the wall and breathed. "Don't be silly," she hissed at the crystal. "It's fine. It'll be fine. You're not going anywhere. Why are you being so weird about this?"

"Are you all right?" One of the many expensively dressed men in the restaurant had walked up without her noticing.

"Fine, I'm fine. Just nerves." She followed his gaze. "Oh, don't tell me you want my keychain too."

The man's handsome face creased around the edges. He kept staring at the crystal. "Someone wants your keychain?"

"My, uh." It was still deniable. "Lex. Having lunch with Lex." Having this man between her and the dining room felt like a reassuring layer of armor.

His expression hardened. "I see."

God, what had she walked into? "Jealous?" Okay, motormouth, stop.

He smiled and shook his head. "A little concerned, that's all. I know that look. He asked you for something, and he thinks he's going to get it. I don't want your keychain. But I don't want him to get his grabby hands on it either. I'm sure you're taking good care of it."

Her breath eased. She was. She was taking good care of it, and this might be ridiculous, but he seemed like —

"There you are." Lex. "I thought you might have — _Wayne_?"

Wayne, Bruce Wayne, she was getting relationship advice from _Bruce Wayne._ What the hell was her life.

"Really, Bruce. Poaching in my own city?"

"I don't see any prey here." Bruce Wayne's mild voice had an undercurrent of knives. "Do you?"

"Don't be dramatic. I'm just checking on my date." Well, there went that. "Lois, Bruce. Watch out, he's a heartbreaker." Lex moved to edge in between them.

Lois shoved her keychain into her purse and closed it. "I'm clearly getting in the middle of something here, and I'm not feeling very well, so. Lovely lunch, Lex. Thank you."

Once she sat safely in her car, keys in the ignition, she felt better. The sun was warm, the car was her fortress, and there would be no second date.

Someone blocked the light. She startled. Bruce Wayne stood by her driver's side window like a weirdly reassuring creep. She rolled down her window. "Yes?"

He held out a card to her. It just said _BW_ in fancy script, and a phone number. "If he gives you any trouble, you can call or text me anytime, and I do mean _any_ time. I have his number, and I have security people in the city."

"You're serious." She took the card.

"I am. He's . . . persistent. Take care."

"I will. Thanks." She drove off, confused but relieved.

* * *

Alfred appeared by Bruce's elbow at the Batcomputer. "Supper, sir."

Bruce's brain was full of crystalline structures, signal processing, and topographic maps. "Leave it, thanks."

"Grilled cheese and tomato soup," Alfred said. A childhood favorite when hot, disgusting when cold. Apparently he'd been neglecting meals enough to warrant a complaint. "Do try to manage at least one sandwich before they start to resemble geological specimens."

"Nn." Bruce stuffed half a sandwich in his mouth and kept typing.

.

"The trouble is," Bruce said, "if triangulation is possible, everything we do to generate data or establish baselines provides them for Luthor as well. We're still at proof of concept." The Batcycle roared across the public land west of the manor, almost rattling his teeth. "He has a year head start, minimum, and who knows how many crystals. So we're using random coordinates, and random time gaps between pinpoint tests so he can't estimate by travel time."

"This is great," Ariel said. "Can we go faster?"

"Not on this terrain. Not if I want to be able to walk tomorrow."

Ariel laughed.

"I want to try some of the tough questions again when you're clearer."

"Okay." Ariel did not sound enthused.

"I'm sorry."

"I just hate that I can't answer."

"We'll see if this helps with that."

Bruce pulled to a stop at their randomly generated geolocation, unstrapped the lens rig from the bike, and pulled the crystal from the holster on his back to get it in position. Mask down. He checked to make sure the recorder was running and dialed the lens open to full aperture.

Everything felt easier, closer. No mental gymnastics to keep Ariel in his field of awareness, just effortless warm presence. His body eased.

A question. He needed to ask a question. "What's your name. Your name with your parents."

"I . . ." Ariel made a small noise of frustration.

The clock was ticking. "What's the last thing you clearly remember your parents doing?" He'd learned to add the modifier, so Ariel wouldn't get bogged down in vague possibilities or glimpses that he couldn't confirm were the present instead of the past.

"Worrying. They were scared. We all were nervous. Sad."

"You and your parents. Anyone else there?"

"One other person, I think . . ."

Time was up. Bruce shut it down and blacked out the crystal before holstering it. He traveled in silence to the next point. Set up again. "How did you feel about the other person? Did you know them?"

"No."

"Were they there to do harm?"

“They didn't mean to."

"Were they there to work on a tree?"

Ariel just whimpered, distressed. Too close. Confirmation enough that the separation was via arborist. There should still be parents to find.

"Okay. It's okay. Were there stories around your name? Like the Tempest around Ariel."

"Of blessed memory."

Bruce felt cold in his gut. "Your name was of blessed memory." He was supposed to be shutting down the lens.

"The name was, yes."

He had to shut down the lens. There were two more stops. He could finish the thought later. He packed up before he could hesitate. Southwest across easy terrain, then a maddening eight-minute wait.

"They said you were of blessed memory?"

"Just the name. That was the story."

"Were they sad when they said it?"

"No."

That meant nothing. Ariel avoided painful topics. "Okay." Bruce tried to remember his other questions, despite the enormous, impossible conclusion. "Place. Stories about where you lived."

"There's no place like home."

"Kansas." Confirmation, finally, but nothing new.

"Yeah! The books were better. I like the sawhorse."

He could not get distracted by talking children's literature. Pack up. Last stop. While he waited for the randomized time window, he texted with Lucius. Yes, the change in location seemed measurable when amplified. No, they shouldn't do it in predictable locations unless they wanted to give Luthor more data.

Bruce didn't want to spend the precious 30 seconds of visible time on interrogation, but it was necessary. "Landmarks. Nearest notable features."

"Flat." Kansas. Right. "There was a nice little stream out back, and trees. And chickens." Ariel looked hopeful.

Bruce sighed. "It's a start."

.

"Sure, haha. I'd love to . . ." Bruce's phone beeped. His best rockhound. "Hold that thought, sorry, gotta take this." He switched calls. "What have you got?"

"I finally found a piece of the green metamorphic you asked for. Barely more than a chip, but apparently he knows what it's worth. He'll only give it to me if I buy a truckload of quartz off of him. At a price assuming it hasn't already been picked through for the special ones, which it definitely has."

"Take it. In fact, start taking people up on that."

"You . . . want six hundred pounds of bargain bin quartz."

"I want to see what happens if I buy enough of it."

* * *

Lois walked briskly when meeting contacts in the Southside. Eyes straight ahead, firm stride, phone in ready reach, keys in hand with one tucked between her knuckles. It wasn't paranoia, she told herself, or classism. There were fewer people on the sidewalks here, many of them were desperate, and she was a brightly colored outsider with a visible purse.

It might be a little paranoia. She'd been jumpy since her lunch date with the rich and famous. The panhandler leaning against the wall ahead of her was no more of a threat than —

He darted out as she passed, reaching not for her purse, but for the hand with the keychain. Faster than she could think, she forgot all about the strikes she had practiced in self-defense classes and swung her arm around, clocking him in the temple with half a pound of quartz, copper, and tooth-edged brass.

The shock jarred her elbow and shoulder. Her palm might be bleeding. But the attacker staggered, clutching his head. She turned, ran, grabbed for her phone. "Call Brucie Baby," she shouted at it.

The number she'd been given picked up immediately. "Hello?"

"Mugger. Wants keychain," she gasped. Which way was her car? Crap. The panhandler had been too clean, posture all wrong, she should have trusted her instincts, they'd just seemed so off-kilter lately . . .

"Get somewhere public," Bruce Wayne said in her ear. "Witnesses are your friend. Nearest intersection?"

"Southside. Ordway. Seventh?"

"Sending someone now. Just get to a crowd and hold tight."

There were businesses on the next street. Grocery store. Barber shop. She just had to get there. She heard running footsteps gaining on her as they passed decrepit apartment buildings with no one outside.

A hard shove on her back and she fell, skinning her knee and the hand she used to catch herself. She rolled to her back, ready to kick and claw.

Something in the air shifted. A blur of red, the feeling of a lion, a diving raptor, a dragon, burning eyes like coals and a hot breeze. Her attacker stumbled back, face slack with terror.

She got to her feet. "Tell Luthor not to send anyone else," she roared, loud enough to hurt her throat.

He ran.

* * *

Bruce paced his office. Ariel paced the ceiling in vertical reflection. He clenched and unclenched his hands. His hair curled and writhed like snakes. "What if he goes after her again?"

"He won't," Bruce said. "Not after open violence. The next move will be more subtle. But he could go after other individual owners. He may have already." He texted Lucius, _Do you have enough prisms to work with?_

Ariel tugged on his hair. "We _can't_ let him."

"We won't. I'm on it now."

Lucius replied, _If you're asking whether you should stop shaking the world to see how much quartz falls out, the answer is yes._

"Great." He called the VP of Marketing.

.

Ariel rolled over on the solarium's new red couch and stretched in a basking, catlike motion. He laughed under his breath. "He got it. He is _so confused_. And angry, but mostly confused yet."

Bruce's phone rang. "Lex! Did you get my present?"

"Bruce." Yes, confused enough that he kept his voice oily and pleasant while he tried to work it out. "What are you doing?"

"Thanking you for the great idea. I mean, if _you_ liked that keychain when it doesn't go with a single thing you own, imagine how the fashion market will eat it up. That's a sample from the Chanel accessories line. They're doing matching pendants, plus zipper pulls on the dresses and purses. All flawless quartz, natch. I had a lot of it lying around."

"I see." Luthor's voice turned to ice. "And of course, the knock-offs will follow."

"They always do," Bruce said. "But hey, if it makes people happy, what's the harm?"

"And the . . . activity book."

"Preview copy. I got one, too. Enough materials for two crystal friendship bracelets each. We can swap if you want. I've already started on yours."

From the couch, Ariel cackled.

"Wayne . . ."

"If you don't have a second friend, maybe Mercy would like one."

Luthor hung up on him.

Bruce leaned back in his ergonomic work chair. "Maybe he would have preferred one of the dream journals with attached Sweet Dreams Crystal," he mused. He closed his eyes and the room rang with Ariel's joy.

.

Bruce did not keep glancing at the prize on his passenger seat. Finally, they'd scooped one before Luthor. Big, too. Dull green, almost the size of a lumpy apple, flat and polished on one face for display. He declared the treasure hunt over and gave his rockhounds a month's paid time and a bonus.

The faint glow was unsettling, but his buyer's analysis and R&D's preliminary reports confirmed no harmful radiation. He tried asking Ariel's opinion, but was too scattered by excitement to perceive the response.

Not that he could have gotten specifics; they still hadn't managed more than emotional hunches and an occasional sharp word via the travel crystal nestled in his coat collar. Enough to guide him to Ariel's friend, but not for a real conversation. Almost home.

He pulled up the drive. Still too scattered. He headed straight for the solarium.

"Ariel?" He should have been getting something by now. He sat down and relaxed his mind. "I brought a new rock to be friends with you." The empty feeling in his mind loomed larger. "Ariel?"

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The jelly donuts are [sufganiyot](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sufganiyah), a more traditional Chanukah feature than the stacks of loot that young Dick Grayson cheerfully accepted alongside personally tailored Christmas rituals to make sure he kept the parts he cared about. Someone also taught him to cheat at dreidel.
> 
> [The Saw-Horse](https://oz.fandom.com/wiki/Sawhorse) is first brought to life in the book The Marvelous Land of Oz.


	6. Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Chapter content advisory: Peril, injury, references to abusive relationships. Off-screen sex. ]]]

"I'm sorry," Bruce muttered. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Please." He exposed another centimeter of lens. "It's half a klick away, underground, wrapped in lead, I will send it to the Moon if I have to, just please." Another centimeter. "Stupid. Stupid."

Alfred rattled the doorknob, then called, "Are you quite all right?"

"Don't come in without a welding mask!"

"Doing a spot of home improvement?"

He felt what might have been a whisper of shared awareness. Hell with it. He dilated the cover completely open. Ariel shimmered faintly from the couch. Bruce collapsed down to sit through him.

"Sir, if you are opening the Ark of the Covenant in there, I must insist you return it to the proper authorities."

"There are no authorities, only opinions," Bruce snapped without thinking. He wasn't sure if Ariel's murmur was echoing him or vice versa. "And I'll talk in an hour, all right? I'll . . . I'll see you in an hour."

He lay down on the couch, shaking with relief.

.

"So," Alfred said. He had brought tea and biscuits to the solarium, and politely ignored the way Bruce crammed three cookies in his mouth at once. The sugar helped. So did the awareness of Ariel copying Alfred's small bites instead of Bruce's stress eating.

"We're being haunted," Bruce said. "There's a ghost in the house."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "Nothing new there. He'll fit right in."

"He does fit right in. You've spent time with him, you just haven't noticed. Something hides him. Something about our minds can't keep hold of it."

"I see."

"He's harmless, as far as I can tell. And independently observable, just not by any objective instruments. I've been . . . There's a whole file, in the tombstone vault. Just in case. But I'd rather not lay it all out without —" Bruce gulped tea and welcomed the way it scalded his throat. "I'd like you to try to meet him. Consciously."

Alfred sipped his tea. "I'm afraid I can't recall the dress code for a midnight séance offhand, but if you —"

"Alfred, I'm serious. I can amplify him, briefly. But I can't guarantee you'll remember."

"Only briefly?"

"Only briefly as long as Luthor's involved, which he is. Luthor tried to kill him today. Deliberately."

"Tried to kill a ghost."

Bruce pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. His head ached, Ariel's nausea still echoed through him, and his hands trembled with unspent adrenaline. "Will you please try?"

.

Bruce waited with the blazing crystal. They'd tried together in the adjoining room with a microphone, but it was too much distraction. Alfred just sat there looking at him as if he'd gone insane. He had not gone insane. He was almost certain of it. In the end, he'd left Alfred in there with a notebook and pen.

He sat on the couch beside Ariel, who had curled up with a copy of a throw pillow. "I'm sorry," Bruce said. "I should have seen. I was looking right at it. The same chunk of rock, just cut in half and from a different angle. He _wanted_ me to steal it. Sacrificed prisms as bait. It must have choked him when I didn't take the whole case."

Ariel hummed a vague soothing response. He flickered in and out of attention. "We're talking," he said, indicating the next room. "He knows me."

"That's something. Have you felt anything like this before?"

"Maybe? Probably. I can't . . . I'm trying, but if it's not _now_ or I'm not paying attention . . . I think I'd notice again, though."

Bruce finally thought to text Lucius. The green mystery rock was moving to Bruce's direct supervision only. He'd go over the data that night. "If this were an R&D war, handing me an enormous sample of a related substance would make no sense."

"It's not," Ariel whispered. "He doesn't even know it, but it's not."

"No, it's not."

.

He shut down the lens and checked on Alfred, who sipped his tea while drawing slow circles with his pen, eyes far away.

"Ah. Time already? I fear we must resort to the séance after all."

"Did you write anything interesting?"

Alfred looked down at the page. His forehead furrowed, then he laughed. He tore the page from the notebook, folded it neatly, and tucked it into a pocket. "Nothing of significance. Keep your ghost, Master Bruce. He seems to be doing you good."

* * *

"I don't believe in ghosts," Bruce said. They lay side by side on Bruce's bed, faces to the hot blue sky, hands faintly touching, tangible. Around them, corn rustled and crows argued over something only important to crows. On the edge of hearing, a stream gurgled.

"I don't know if I do or not," Ariel said.

"You are one."

"If you say so."

"All right." Bruce had a deep intuition that getting Ariel to acknowledge whatever he was avoiding would crack something open. The answers were there. "What are your other options?"

"Hmmmm." Ariel got lost in humming for a moment. "You say some."

"Angels, which I also don't believe in. Fairies, same. Hallucinations, but at the point where multiple people report the same experience, that's a phenomenon, not a root cause."

"Aliens?"

"I've met aliens. They don't need believing in."

"You've met me."

"The jury's still out on that."

"Most illogical," Ariel said in a perfect mimicry. "I'd rather be an alien than a ghost."

"Oh?" Bruce turned over to feel the warmth of the sun on his back. In dreams, his scars didn't pull.

"Ghost stories end with the ghost going away. Except the one with the sandworm and the dancing at the dinner table and the stereo instructions. I could live like them. Maybe I already do."

Bruce rolled the thoughts in his mind, torn between the consequences of his search and trying to decode Ariel's muddled cultural references. Ariel was not wrong. Ghosts symbolized a purpose unfulfilled, a pain unaddressed. If he learned his sprite's true name and said it three times, would Ariel vanish?

A magic user could probably answer that question. The jury was still out on their existence as well, and sleeping Bruce could admit he was afraid to collapse that waveform by chasing the rumors of mystic helms and people who rewrote reality just by speaking backwards. If he opened that box, nonsense might keep pouring out of it forever.

An enormous blunt-beaked corvid perched on the bedframe and cocked its head to inspect them. Bruce said, "Common ravens were wiped out in Kansas."

"Shows what you know," the raven rasped, and flew off in a huff.

Ariel held up his arm, fingers outstretched, to play with the way light passed through it. "That wasn't very nice."

"I'm not known for being nice."

"If you ever meet Ma and Pa, you'd better be nice."

"There's no if. We'll find them." Bruce had learned long ago not to make promises he couldn't keep. He couldn't save everyone, no matter who was sniffling on the sidewalk waiting for them to emerge. "I promise."

"And?"

"And I'll try to be nice."

"Thanks."

* * *

Bruce and Ariel were doing chin-ups from the lowest branch of a beech tree when Dick walked out from the house toward him. Posture said another fight coming, and probably not one Bruce could do much about.

"Hey, B."

"Hey, Dick. Care to join me? There's plenty of tree."

"Uh, no. I'm good. Look. Bruce." Dick ran his hands through his hair. "You're freaking me out."

"I got that impression." Bruce never really knew what to do with these situations, when he couldn't fake a smile. He kept a steady pace, letting the burn in his shoulders build.

"You're being _weird_."

"By which you mean, taking better care of myself, getting some sun, and finding ways to give my day job more of the attention it deserves without running myself ragged."

"And constantly distracted, and turning in on yourself, like . . . like you're not quite here."

"Unlike every other time I've dug into an important case." Bruce flipped over to hang from his knees and do some crunches. Ariel didn't join him, hovering in concern. Ariel had trouble with conflict. He didn't seem used to it.

"Fine, so what's the case?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

"Try me."

"I tried Alfred. He didn't believe me."

"And you're freaking him out, too, but he still somehow thinks you've got this under control."

"I _have_ got this under control." Bruce dropped to the ground. If they were going to raise their voices, having to shout just to hear each other wouldn't help.

"You don't. Even Barb's noticed."

"She's smart and observant, so that shouldn't be a surprise. She hasn't considered it worth commenting."

"She only sees you at night, she hasn't lived with you, and she still has you on a pedestal. _And_ she's staying out of it because she's not paid enough to deal with our drama."

"There doesn't have to be drama." He did not appreciate the way Ariel mirrored Dick's snort of laughter.

"Okay," Dick said. "Okay. No drama. Just the facts. Fact: If I made half the changes you're making, you'd assume I'd been replaced by a pod person."

"I know. I've had myself scanned several times, and Alfred's reviewed the results."

Dick crossed his arms. "And the fact that you felt the need to check doesn't set off any alarms?"

Bruce regulated his reactions. "I'm keeping up with the company and the mission. I'm sleeping better, and I'm happier. Show me one thing I'm doing that is less careful, that's endangering myself or others, and we'll talk."

Dick froze. "Are you seeing someone?"

"What?" Maybe Dick could get it after all. Bruce felt Ariel prod at Dick experimentally, then shrug.

"You only get this weird when you're seeing someone. And no offense, but given your track record, we need to check her for evil."

"What makes you think they're not a him?"

Dick threw his hands up in exasperation. "Fine! Him!"

"I'm sorry. I can't produce a partner for you to hate." Bruce grabbed at a possible off-ramp from this terrible conversation. "And I'm not completely reclusive. Alfred and I are doing Passover at Uncle Jake's this year. Wednesday. You're always welcome."

"I . . . I can't. Not while it's this weird. Sorry."

"Me too. I mean it, if you see _anything_ that looks like I'm a danger, I need to know."

"I can't. I can't stay here and watch you . . . do whatever this is. I can't get sucked in."

Something in Bruce's emotions creaked in warning. "Good."

"Wow, B. Just, wow."

"No, I mean it. You're right, something is happening. Something I can't explain to you, but if you stayed, you'd start to agree with Alfred. I am 99% sure that this is positive. But if I'm wrong, I need someone on the outside. Someone unaffected. Someone I trust."

Dick opened and closed his mouth a few times, then said, "Well, that makes it simple. I came out to talk this over with you, but if I'm the closest you've got to a voice of reason, I guess I'd better make my own call. I'm not going back, spring quarter."

"You what?"

"I'm going up to Blüdhaven's police academy. They're like, bad old Gotham. They need at least one officer who isn't scum. And they could use someone on night shift, too."

"Dick —"

"I've thought it through. I can pick up the rest of my crim degree in a couple years. It's not like I'm new at a double workload."

"Dick, wait."

Dick waited. There was something in his expression, something that Bruce might say that could fix this, some way he could be supportive. He could make this a growing up and not a pulling away.

"What we do . . . It takes a lot of money, and a lot of tech. Anything you need, let me know."

Dick let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. Whatever the right answer had been, that wasn't it. "Okay then. I'll do that." He walked away, leaving Bruce standing barefoot in the wet grass.

Ariel tried to say something, but Bruce's mind was too scrambled to hear him. He went on with his workout.

* * *

Breakthrough pain. Must be almost morning. Just had to hang on until dawn. Maybe if he rolled over? Hm. Moving wasn't happening. Sleep paralysis. Light on his eyelids couldn't come soon enough.

Aside from certain poisons, burns were the worst. They lasted. The nerves lingered in the moment of trauma instead of moving forward in time with the rest of him. Flames bit at his calves and thighs, filling the room brighter and brighter, setting the couch ablaze. The stacks of books would be next.

"Shh," Ariel said, and put an insubstantial hand on his forehead. "Shh. You don't have to think about it. Were you waiting for me?"

"Mm." The pain and corresponding muscle tension wandered off somewhere, leaving Bruce vaguely uncomfortable but unwilling to move. "Hate drugs."

"I know. But maybe a little more chemical help to get you to morning?"

"You're here now."

Ariel felt annoyed at him but didn't argue. "What was it this time?"

Thinking about it hurt more. His mind would wander there eventually anyway, to study the tactics and find the might-have-beens. He might as well get a head start. "Joker."

He didn't go back in. He put them above a chessboard, with the lair layout as a delicate diorama built to scale. There, Joker, lounging at E1 in an ersatz tinsel crown. There, the obligatory deathtrap and Batman in check, dislocating his thumb to slip free. There, Harley Quinn, a bobblehead doll riding a mallet as a hobbyhorse. The mallet had a smiling cartoon horse face painted on. Its googly eyes rolled as she careened around in random L patterns. 

She smashed supports here and there with the mallet, snapping the balsa wood beams and paper walls. Her eyes were desperate, her smile brittle. "Oops!" she shouted as she brought the house down and set it ablaze. He didn't blame her, really. In impossible situations, people resisted however they could.

Bruce felt the heat on his face and heard the crackle all around them. Joker was past a tangle of burning beams, far from any visible exits. He would get out somehow. He always did. Round and round they went, time after time. The hoots of laughter had cut off sharply, though. From far away behind Bruce, Harley wailed for the man she couldn't admit she had just tried to kill.

That section of ceiling looked like it would hold. Bruce pulled on a respirator, fired a grapnel, and leaped.

Ariel put his fingertips on Bruce's aching hand. Sensation, that was definitely a tingling pressure instead of an absence. "He bit you _while_ you were putting a respirator on him."

"He does that."

"She'll go back to him."

"Probably."

"You could have died."

"I didn't." He rolled away to put his back to Ariel, accepting renewed pain in his legs as the price of changing position.

"You didn't have to —"

"I did. You know I did."

 _Anything to save a life_ reverberated between them. Neither of them said it, or both did. A dozen arguments on how it did or didn't apply to saving a future murderer thrummed along the connection. "Yeah," Ariel finally said wearily. "I know you did."

.

Bruce slept in the solarium until the sun went down, caught up on what work he could that night, then did it again the next day, and most of the one after that. He rearranged things so he could sleep on the couch as a standard routine. He shifted his schedule later. Alfred didn't even make a cutting remark.

* * *

"Where were you?" Selina hissed at Bruce as the two of them parkoured across the rooftops at speed. "I was only supposed to be the distraction. I have a reputation to maintain."

"Sorry," he said. "Two-Face happened. Down here." They swung sharply into an exit stairwell with a known broken lock. He hated dodging fliers. He would much rather be the tallest thing in his city. He wasn't sure if that was egotism or insecurity, or if there was a difference.

" _Two-Face_ snuck up on you? You didn't just follow the trail of duality puns?"

"I did, as soon as I saw them. Which was tonight. If you would wear a comm, I could have told you." The yellow emergency lights in the stairwell washed out Selina to an eerie monochrome. Black mask, black lipstick, ashen skin. He must look just as strange, with his emblem and belt indistinguishable from bright white.

"Sorry, Bats. You're not belling this cat. Ugh. I just hope they didn't see me. _Me_ , putting gems back in a museum."

"I said I was sorry."

"Which is entirely out of character, so I suppose I forgive you." She sat down on the stairs and lounged against the wall. "But seriously. Two-Face."

"It's not like he's the only thing I have to watch for."

"And yet, you always see him. And me."

She wasn't wrong. Getting what most people called 'enough sleep' cut into his research time, as did combing the last sixty years of records for something bright in the Kansas sky, glitter on the ground, government cover-ups, _anything._ Dead ends in every direction.

He was still keeping up. He still caught every clue in time, saved everyone in his power to save. He was stronger and steadier for the extra rest. He had everything under control.

* * *

Bruce lay dozing in his bed, halfway between dream and clarity. Ariel lay beside him, cheek on his shoulder, arm around his waist. It could have been innocent. It was not innocent.

As the days lengthened, the tension was building, not fading. If it kept going like this, they would act without choosing. Unacceptable. One of them would have to say something soon, and it would have to be Bruce.

"Ariel. Do you understand sex?"

Ariel snorted a laugh. "People hang prisms in their bedrooms. College students hang prisms in their bedrooms. Yes, I know about sex."

"Knowing about it and understanding it are different. You know about names, but you don't understand them the same way we do."

A thoughtful quiet. "Yes. I understand it. It's . . . good, at least when people are good to each other. I like it."

"Would you say you've had sex?"

"One of those _easy_ questions." Ariel nuzzled closer into Bruce's neck. It tickled. "Sort of. I've reflected. And refracted. People have invited me in. Some of them even saw me. But not like you see me. Not for myself." Another quiet. "Yes. I'd like to."

"How much do you understand about consent?"

"No means no," Ariel said promptly. "And only invited. Both people, all the people, have to want it. But we both want it."

"True." Bruce worked his fingers through Ariel's hair and along his scalp. "There's another aspect, though. Power, and judgment. If someone's too young, or drunk, or there's a power imbalance, they might not be able to make a good decision."

Ariel's shoulder drooped, and his head went heavy. "And you think that about me."

"I'm concerned," Bruce said, hating himself for every word, "that you might only want me because I want you. Because I've wanted you since I first saw you at the foot of the bed. You might only be reflecting, and that wouldn't be fair to you."

Ariel giggled against Bruce's neck. "That's what you're worried about? Sorry, it's just." His arm tightened on Bruce's waist, almost solid. "What makes you think you're not reflecting me?"

"Because I already know what I like."

"So do I." The bedroom filled with colorful spirals as they talked. Sensuous shapes and a sense of closeness. Safety. Ariel sat up. His hair floated around his head, red flames licking at the tips. A red glow unfurled around him like wings, or a copy of Bruce's cape. "Bat, I want you."

"Well, then." Bruce shifted in his sleep, stretching his arms and kicking off the blanket. "How about you do something you like."

* * *

"Good morning, Alfred." Bruce snagged three oranges from the bowl, juggled them briefly, and caught one with his teeth to hear Ariel laugh. "The London office was happy to see me. Good for morale."

"Good morning, sir. About that." Alfred set his tea and toast aside to start the espresso machine rattling and hissing, while Bruce got a frying pan. "While Tokyo and Vienna may be benefiting from your current arrangement, have you considered making appearances closer to home?"

Bruce opened the fridge. "I'm still making it in sometimes. Eggs?"

"Two, please, with the gruyere." Alfred didn't say any more until they were settled and Bruce was sipping his macchiato. "This can't go on."

"What can't?" He knew what. He trusted Alfred to tell him. Alfred was telling him, and he didn't want to hear it.

"Your schedule. Bruce Wayne _cannot_ get a reputation as a night owl. And you must pay some kind of attention to the world outside the solarium during the day, which is now, as you may have noticed, over fifteen hours long."

"The days get shorter in a week. And I go outside." Bruce ate his eggs and tried not to feel like a sullen child.

"You are living in dreams, Master Bruce. More sleep is one thing, and I'm glad of it. But we can't have a repeat of eighth grade, can we?"

"That's not fair." Very mature. Nothing in common with his short-sighted declaration that he would stop going to school in favor of independent study and training. He remembered punching a wall until his knuckles bled, when Alfred point-blank ordered him back to school in the autumn and no, he was not allowed to skip a grade.

"You're right. It's not fair to compare the actions of a disconsolate minor to those of a CEO who takes his life into his own hands on a nightly basis."

Bruce peeled an orange carefully, all the way down to stray strands of pith, and let Ariel tiptoe around his memories of that year. His seventh-grade teachers wanted to fast-track him straight to high school AP classes. His rabbi kept calling, disappointed that he'd dropped his avid Torah study and fierce ethical arguments like a hot rock as soon as he'd fulfilled his obligation. Ironically, Alfred was angry with him for practicing holding hot rocks without dropping them.

He'd been burning up from the inside, and Alfred had been right.

"You're right," he said. "This has to stop."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I've been looking at it all wrong. I won't figure this out from the sky. That's what Luthor's never had. Shoe leather, actually _talking_ to people. You can learn more in twenty minutes at the right nightclub than a year at City Hall." He started wolfing down the rest of his breakfast, ignoring Alfred's withering expression. "I'll make my excuses today and call Dick to help Barbara cover the city for a few nights. I'm going to Kansas."

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The movie with "the sandworm and the [dancing at the dinner table](https://youtu.be/AQXVHITd1N4)" is [Beetlejuice](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Beetlejuice). [dancing video TW: jumpscare]
> 
> The irony of Bruce trying to explain compromised [consent](https://www.scarleteen.com/article/abuse_assault/drivers_ed_for_the_sexual_superhighway_navigating_consent) _while he is asleep_ is not lost on me. They're doing their best, and their level of communication is a pretty specialized circumstance, so, please don't negotiate your sex with a new partner while both of you are asleep, I guess?
> 
> (Scarleteen is an incredible all-ages education/support site for learning about sexual health and relationships; it has [a bunch more on the subject of consent](https://www.scarleteen.com/tags/consent).)
> 
> The author does not endorse the strategy of "reforming the police from the inside," but it's far from the most questionable decision made by these characters (in this chapter alone), and at this point the eldest Robin's migration to Blüdhaven has the weight of historical inevitability. Robins gonna Robin.
> 
> [Pikuach Nefesh](https://www.myjewishlearning.com/article/pikuach-nefesh-the-overriding-jewish-value-of-human-life/), often translated as "the preservation of human life" or "anything to save a life," is a central tenet of Jewish philosophy and ethics. The history of thought on the subject has remarkable similarities to the consensus values and decisions of non-lethal superheroes (though Batman consistently takes more risks than would be required). This is not a coincidence.


	7. Apple Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [[[ Chapter content advisory: child death. ]]]
> 
> Hebrew now has mouseover (click on mobile) transliterations!

_29 years ago_

Martha was out back of the barn when she felt the _thump_. Thinking back on it later, she would probably say she felt a chill, but more likely it just sounded a little off, something that heavy landing in dirt when it wasn't expected.

"Jonathan? You all right?"

No answer. There shouldn't be an answer; he should be in town picking up the herbicide. Such a heavy _thump_ , though, like a body falling. She was probably working herself up over nothing, but she knew she couldn't rest until she'd checked. She shook the dirt from her work gloves and headed into the field.

The smell of hot metal and charred vegetation got her next, then the pings and crackles of something cooling abruptly. She waded through lentils and clover, following the sound, until the heat on her face made her pause. Something like an enormous gray egg, as long as a person, had nosedived into the ground and roasted all the plant life in a wide circle like a bullseye. The egg was cracked open longwise, missing half its shell, and shards of bright glass had gone everywhere.

.

By the time Jonathan got home, the egg had cooled enough to approach, but Martha didn't touch it yet. It obviously came from space, and if messing with it zapped her straight to Neptune or something, Jonathan should at least know where she went.

When she heard the truck door slam, she whistled for him.

"Gotta unload the truck," he called.

"This first!"

He surveyed it with her silently, then said, "Well, whatever it is, we better move it before I come through with the planter."

"Such a romantic." She finally could touch it. The shell didn't feel like much. The jagged edge where it had split and torn open was sharp.

The two of them together managed to flip it cracked side up. The inside was crusted with more of those shards, like a geode, except for a smaller smooth compartment up near the top. Whatever that section was for, it hadn't been as heatproof; the material had warped and crazed. A lump of something rumpled like fabric lay inside, vivid red and soot-blackened.

A horrible premonition struck her. She tugged the red thing before she lost her nerve. It was fabric, sure enough, and a lot of gritty ash. She pulled it out, supporting it with both hands. 

"Martha." He felt it too, then. But it wasn't like they could look away. She unfolded the fabric.

The blanket had somehow survived the heat of reentry. The tiny bones inside hadn't.

They hid the ship, the blanket, and all the crystals they could find under a tarp in the barn. They buried the ash and bones under the big silver maple by the stream. 

"It doesn't feel right, not being able to ask for permission," Martha said. "Not knowing what they would want said over their child."

"Kaddish never goes amiss," Jonathan said. "At least someone'll have known. Remembered. Hopefully they can translate."

Holding hands, they prayed over a baby they'd never met, despite having no minyan to share their shock and grief. Who could they have told?

* * *

Jonathan thought more and more about children over that summer. It was no one's fault that they couldn't conceive. If it was anyone's fault that the pod had burned up, that would be an engineer lightyears away, and he couldn't exactly take them to task for it. He just wondered what it would have been like.

The bones had looked human enough. Would he have been purple and scaly with antennae, though? No way of knowing. Jonathan liked to think he'd have looked human enough to pass, with dark curly hair, tawny skin, and wide, interested eyes. Pale eyes. Babies mostly started with pale eyes and then they darkened up, but this one's stayed the blue of early morning sky.

He tried to set it aside, but that harvest, driving the combine, with the roar of the machinery muffled by both earmuffs and earplugs, he heard baby talk from the passenger seat. He looked, startled, and it stopped. A few minutes later when he'd forgotten, he heard it again.

The third time, he managed not to turn. He talked back to the half-formed, half-heard sounds. "Okay, you want to know how it works? First you have to cut off the stalks at the base, and there's a guide to pull them into the thresher. No, don't stick your head down there, you goof, stay in the cab."

He didn't tell Martha. It would be a cruelty to tell her he wanted a child so desperately that he'd resorted to making one up.

* * *

Martha couldn't shake the memory of holding that terrible too-light red bundle. To lose something they'd never even had, it shouldn't have been eating her up like this. They kept finding crystals here and there; they put them in the barn with the others. One tiny one she hung in the kitchen window, suspended by a piece of clear fishing line, and tried not to think too hard about what she meant by it.

Their chores left her and Jonathan working mostly separately during the summer. She'd always talked and sung to herself to some extent, but that summer she felt the lack of company. She sang lullabies and children's songs. She sang along with Johnny Cash and John Denver and Crystal Gayle, anything to keep away the silence.

She narrated as she chopped chicken and vegetables in the kitchen, explaining what she was making. She grew restless, unable to ignore the sensation that there had been a baby, and she was supposed to be holding him, and he could never be held. An itch she couldn't scratch.

She snuck into the barn and got the blanket, still ashy with its tragic cargo. She washed it twice, in a load by itself with a handful of salt, then once more in the stream out back. She wrapped it around a large pillow and sat in the living room, rocking and humming, when she needed a break from chores. The child wouldn't have been an infant anymore, but he would still want holding.

When she looked out the window and didn't dwell on it, she imagined him blinking up at her with pale blue eyes like her grandpa Clark of blessed memory, who had married in from the East Coast and told her Missouri never quite stopped feeling like another planet. "It's okay," she murmured to the blanket. "You're mama's blossom, wherever you came from."

She hid the blanket in the spare room the rest of the time, laid out in a child-sized gap between stacked boxes and the window. There was no point in paining Jonathan with what they couldn't have.

* * *

Jonathan stomped along the property line in the late February mud, checking the fences, looking for litter. Usually he and Martha would do it in pairs, but she'd wanted more time to herself lately, and Jonathan guiltily appreciated the extra time with his imaginary friend. Not that the boy disappeared when Martha was there (though he did blink out when the sun went down, and wouldn't go into the darker half of the barn), but they couldn't really carry on a conversation, and his vocabulary was shooting up along with his height.

As long as he didn't turn his head, the boy hopped and floated along beside him, pointing at everything and asking, "Whatzat?"

"That's grass. That's a rock. That's a fencepost. That's a sparrow. That's another fencepost. Fencepost. Fencepost. All right, little fox, you know fenceposts by now, gimme another one."

The boy shrieked with laughter and did a somersault in midair. Jonathan had tried imagining him into clothes, but it was a losing battle. He didn't suppose it mattered.

"Whatzat?" The boy hovered over a bush and pointed down.

"It's a bush."

"No, whatzat?"

"I'd have to look that one up, kiddo. There are a lot of kinds of bush."

"No, whatZAT?" He was pointing behind the bush.

Jonathan looked. "Huh. Will you look at that." He picked up the knit cap Martha had lost in November. "That's a hat."

"Mama's hat."

"Yeah, you're right, it's Mama's hat."

The boy bounded off toward the house, then stopped when Jonathan didn't follow him. "Mama's hat!"

"I'll bring it to her later, bird boy."

"No. Mama's hat."

Jonathan sighed. It was a long way back to the house for wishful thinking. "When I'm done checking the fence."

"Now, please." The boy enunciated carefully. He more or less stood on his feet, wearing a blurry red approximation of Jonathan's own clothing.

Jonathan paused. He hadn't particularly been working on teaching the kid manners, though perhaps he should have. Apparently he'd soaked them up anyway. "All right. We'll bring the hat in to Mama right now."

When he walked up to the back porch, he could hear Martha talking in the house. He stopped to listen.

"No, he won't be back until later, apple boy. He's checking the fenceline. If you say so. Where were we. _That is not my button_ , cried Toad. _My button is small_."

Holding his breath, Jonathan opened the kitchen door as quietly as possible and stuck his head around the corner to look into the living room. Martha sat curled up on the couch with a red-wrapped pillow snuggled in under her arm, reading _Frog and Toad Are Friends_ to empty air. Behind Jonathan, a ghost child grinned to split his face, laughed out loud, and did another somersault.

Martha looked up, startled. "Jonathan! I. This isn't."

Jonathan held up the soggy hat. "Someone insisted I bring you this right away."

Martha closed her eyes. Jonathan did too. Between them, their mutually wished-for child stood where they could both not-see him at once.

"I, uh." Jonathan cleared his throat. "I suppose we ought to give him a real name, then. Unless you already have."

* * *

Martha went to the root cellar with the cordless phone, so she'd have a while to talk without insubstantial listening ears, before she worked up the nerve to make the phone call. "Rabbi Daniel? It's Martha Kent."

"Martha! How are you two doing out there?" He didn't say 'we've missed you' out loud, even if he thought it, which she appreciated. He understood the costs of a four-hour round trip.

"Pretty well! Pretty well. We . . . may have found an adoption opportunity. Nothing solid, but if it comes through, how does the ritual part work?"

She took a lot of notes and asked a lot of questions. She preemptively crossed off the aspects that were either unworkable or physically impossible, which technically covered 2/3 of it, but they'd do their best and make promises for the rest. They'd need to wait until later in the spring, as she'd suspected. The work on the stream would be biting cold.

.

"Whatzat?" Clark asked.

Martha didn't pause in stacking fist-sized rocks to dam off a section of the stream. "We're making a mikveh. It's a special kind of bathtub, and washing in it's a mitzvah, a right thing to do. Today, it's to say you mean to worship like we do."

"I worship like we do _now_." He could manage longer sentences already if they were echoes.

"You sure do. And this is part of making it official. Just gotta dig it out so it's deep enough for you to get all the way underwater."

Clark lay down in the stream on his back and made bubbling noises, though his presence disturbed the water not at all. "Underwater!" he gurgled.

"Yes, you are. You're a natural."

By the time she'd finished getting it deep enough at least for a toddler and lining it with a big blue tarp so it wouldn't immediately fall in on itself, her hands were raw and her whole body was sore. It was a good job well done, though.

The bathing ritual wasn't terribly complicated. Clark didn't even have a speaking part, though he added an emphatic "Worship like we do," before cannonballing down into Jonathan who was gamely freezing his tuchus off in the April ice water.

She laid out towels on Clark's blanket for them to towel off afterwards, and Clark made a show of shivering to match Jonathan as he rolled around pretending to get dry.

* * *

Jonathan sat on the couch with Clark, watching Star Trek. He'd recorded it the night before and moved his work around so they could watch it in the afternoon before the sun went down. He leaned back and stretched his aching legs out. Clark mirrored him down to the hole in the toe of his sock, though he'd matched Jonathan's head height so neither his feet or his behind touched the floor or couch.

Uh-oh, the Crystalline Entity again. Clark had strongly held opinions, and hadn't thought much of his beloved Data having an evil twin, either. "Maybe it's nice this time," he said, but he didn't sound too hopeful.

"Could be! People can always change."

"It's not like that!" Clark's little eyebrows drew together and his chubby cheeks and mouth drew down in a pouting frown. When Jonathan focused on the tv, he could almost see his son clearly. He tried not to think of a field full of glitter and charred clover. Was silicon life possible outside of fiction? Had there been two deaths? How long had the baby in the pod been friends with the other passenger?

"Maybe this was a bad one and they're usually good," Jonathan said. "Or, since it's all pretend, maybe the writers didn't know, and because they didn't understand it and it was from outside, they made up a pack of lies. That happens a lot, I'm afraid."

"They shouldn't lie. If they don't know, they should go check."

"That would be a lot better." The first commercial break was taking an age, but commercials were, distorted or not, one of Clark's few ways to see a wider slice of the world. 

A jewelry ad came on. Clark leaned forward, enraptured. Maybe they should bring out more of the crystals for him to enjoy. There was a silent agreement, though, that showing them off too much when anyone might see would be dangerous. Maybe just for special occasions. Blend them in as decorations.

* * *

Martha heard a chorus of squawks from the chicken run. She rested her shovel for a minute. "Clark!"

"Yes, Ma?" he said from right behind her.

"You stop scaring the chickens this minute."

"They like it! They get bored!"

"Uh-huh. What are you telling them?"

"That I'm running after them," he mumbled. "And maybe there's a hawk. But only a little! Not like a hawk right there!"

This again. She'd say it as often as she had to. "Clark Joseph Kent. You are bigger than them, and they didn't do you any harm. How would you feel if someone bigger than you ran around after you and messed with your head?"

Silence. She waited. "Not good," he finally said.

"So what will you do to fix it?"

"I could . . . think them some extra tasty bugs? And some sitting quietly."

"Good choice. Thank you." She glanced over the boy in her mind's eye and sighed. "And a shirt's not enough. Pants, please."

* * *

The Passover seder was all laid out on their kitchen table. At three in the afternoon, Martha lit the candles and they sat down to pray, eat, and tell the story. Two adults and two empty seats: one for the prophet Elijah and one where Clark carefully copied every food and drink and handwashing as they worked through the plate.

Jonathan turned to Clark, eyes closed. "You're up, kiddo. Do you remember the questions?"

"Uh-huh!" Clark beamed with pride. In Jonathan's exact pronunciation, he sang:

מה נשתנה הים הזה מכל הימים?

The meaning echoed in their heads, "How is this day different from all other days?"

Jonathan squeezed Martha's hand and realized that this had stopped feeling novel. Clark was still a gift and a miracle, and always would be, but this was just their family, celebrating like they did every year. He blinked back tears and prompted Clark to continue with the first verse.

* * *

Martha brought the blanket-wrapped present up from the cellar at six in the morning, thinking about anything other than the contents. "Don't peek," she hollered up the stairs.

"I won't peek!" Clark shouted back. He waited in the living room with Jonathan, hands over his eyes, bobbing in midair with excitement.

"All right, you can look now. Happy birthday!" She put the blanket on the coffee table and unwrapped it to reveal the bright red dragon kite with fluttering blue and gold tails, along with his own copy of _Catch the Wind: All About Kites_ , which he'd asked her to check out six times in a row.

His eyes widened, looking at (and possibly through) every bit of it. "Can we go fly it right now? Please?"

"Not enough wind yet, bird boy," Jonathan said. He moved his hand as if ruffling Clark's hair. "But you get to pick breakfast. Pancakes or waffles?"

"Waffles! Please."

"Waffles it is." Jonathan headed for the kitchen. Clark both followed him and stayed with Martha, admiring the kite.

"And we'll have apple pie later," she said.

"At the good tree?"

"At the good tree. Happy birthday, Clark. We're so glad you came to stay with us."

* * *

Jonathan looked through the next possibilities in the homeschooling curriculum. "Mm. How about more of the Life Sciences track? I'm pretty much burned for keeping up with him in math at this point."

"Me too," Martha said. "All but the story problems, and that's just more English, really."

He did the reflexive mental check that the sun was down, the only lights were the living room lamps, and he could bring out the thoughts he kept tucked away during the day. "This would be a lot easier if he could think about his homework without one of us there. Remember what free time was like?"

She swatted his knee. "No, and neither do you. Would you trade extra homework time for a lifetime of muddy laundry and picky eating and wondering if he's stepped on a rusty nail?"

 _I'd trade all that for getting to hold him, and so would you_ , Jonathan didn't say. _Bring him to town, know he'll have a life when we're gone_. "What if we double down on literature? We can keep up there, won't run out of choices, and no trouble with reading level. More books on tape. Keep the sit-down homework time for science."

"There are worse things than raising a liberal arts major." She leaned against his arm and put her feet up on the couch. "You've convinced me. Endless storytime. Dibs on Sherlock Holmes."

"We're splitting the Sherlock Holmes. I'll fight you for the Fleming."

"You want to read our son James Bond. At _ten_."

He shrugged. "It's when I started. And I didn't have my dad looking over my shoulder giving commentary on the offensive parts the whole time."

"Speaking of commentary . . ."

He sighed. "I know. I'll call tomorrow."

.

"Hi, Rabbi Daniel, do you have a minute? It's Jonathan Kent." Jonathan laid out the practiced story about a gentile neighbor kid who'd asked to learn more about the Torah.

After a long pause, Daniel said, "I've tried to give you space to come to this yourselves, but at this point I really have to insist you bring your son in and let me have a look at him."

"We — I —" Jonathan couldn't bring himself to lie, not about this.

"Nine years now, both of you asking _hypothetical_ questions about how to raise a child right, and now you're trying to get him ready for his bar mitzvah attended by who, the barn cats? I know you'd never hurt a child on purpose, and I don't know why you think you've got to hide him from his own community, but you have me deeply worried. I need to see him."

"We . . . can't. He can't leave the farm. We've tried. He just can't."

Jonathan could almost see Daniel looking to the ceiling for patience. "Well, I need to get out of the city more often anyway. Tuesday good?"

"There's no need to —"

"Deeply. Worried."

Jonathan pulled his hair, choking on panic. "I. You'll think we've lost it."

"Look." Daniel sounded sympathetic but immovable. "Whatever's going on out there, your family needs _some_ kind of help, okay? We'll figure it out. Tuesday?"

"Okay." The forecast was sunny all week and the days were long. Maybe they could at least give him a glimpse. "Show up as early as you can. He's better with mornings."

* * *

Martha let Rabbi Daniel in. "Thanks for coming so far out of your way."

"Thanks for having me." He pushed his glasses back on his face and looked around the spotless house with expectant eyebrows.

"I know, you want to meet him right away. It'll take more than a minute, or we'd have asked you over sooner. But I had an idea that might work."

She walked the three of them out to sit around on a picnic blanket under the maple tree, with biscuits, butter and jam, and a pitcher of lemonade. She asked after all the people they knew in common, and kept half an ear on Clark's fascinated interest, learning more about his Ma's people than the same tired set of stories. He was being there just as hard as he could, wearing pants and shoes and everything.

When they'd finished and set the plates aside, she said, "Would you sing with us? I know, sounds kooky, but he can tell when people are _actually_ enjoying themselves, not fretting about it." This was her secret weapon; she'd seen young Rabbi Daniel, still wet behind the ears and more earnest than wise, utterly lose himself in song at Camp Ramah open mic nights.

They started in on Hinei Ma Tov. It was awkward to start with, as he kept glancing around in case a child appeared from behind the chicken coop, but they quickly loosened up. Clark echoed Rabbi Daniel in the round as loud as he knew how, dancing around on the tree branches in time.

Rabbi Daniel startled. Martha smiled, closed her eyes, and pulled him back into it. At the end of that song, they paused for breath. "What _was_ that?" He craned his neck, as if he'd catch it by looking.

" _That_ is our son, Clark. It takes a while to get the hang of listening for him. But we've had a while." Martha stood and brushed off her jeans. "Now we have a few things to show you."

.

"Well." He still looked pretty stunned, but going through a decade's worth of their patchwork mitzvot had steadied him. "This is what I can say. Whatever's going on here, you're not harming a child, and you're not harming yourselves. Did a Jewish soul fall from space and land on your heads? I can't say. But if he did, then he'll need a study plan."

.

He asked for a crystal to take with him, so he'd have something to touch when he wondered if it had been a dream. They were cautious, but it made sense, and Clark was thrilled to pieces. Rabbi Daniel drove off toward Wichita with a little piece of their memory in his pocket.

* * *

Jonathan hauled the new twin mattress and bed frame into the spare room. Clark trailed faintly behind him; winter days were too short and too dim for him.

"Will she come soon?"

"He or she won't come until summer. When city school lets out and people have more time to travel. But this is when we have time to set up." This bed frame was not a one-person job. "Martha?"

"In a minute!"

"Need help with the bed frame!"

"You want donuts or charcoal? In a minute!"

Clark swung his feet, sitting on the window ledge. "Why do you think they won't come?"

Damn. "Inside thoughts."

"Sorry, it was really loud."

"Because finding a kid who _does_ want to do hard work and _doesn't_ want to do it at summer camp with a whole pile of friends is a pretty hard sell." He laid out the pieces in the right shape and threaded the bolts so they would just need lining up.

"Rabbi thinks he knows someone."

"He said might. No promises."

"She's really shy."

"Inside thoughts." Jonathan tried to ignore the ramifications of his son being able to read minds over the phone lines.

* * *

Martha trimmed a dozen triangles out of the sunflower print, careful of her angles. "How's our guest?"

"She's good," Clark said. "We're reading at the tree. She's trying to like Shakespeare but she doesn't."

She laughed. "I remember that. I did like it for real, eventually, but I just hoped to like it first. Are you giving her space?"

"Yes, Ma. But she likes me! And I think I can help her with the Shakespeare."

"Good. You do that. Just remember your boundaries."

"Yes, Ma."

Kitty was an odd slip of a thing, Martha thought. There was something insubstantial there, like the wind might blow right through her. If she and Clark turned out to be kindred spirits, Martha would be grateful.

.

By the end of the month-long visit, Kitty and Clark were making up dances together and dramatically reading out loud from Macbeth. If Kitty knew, she didn't let on. Martha smiled to herself and didn't make a fuss about it.

* * *

Jonathan sat at attention while Rabbi Daniel read from the Torah on the card table in their living room. He didn't scratch at his yarmulke. He had to get his mind right.

Clark hovered beside Rabbi Daniel, twisting his hands together and trying not to fidget with his tallit. Martha and Clark's friend Kitty sat together on the couch, both wearing red hats for the occasion. Rainbows from the suncatchers in the windows played over their faces. The speakerphone crackled ominously, with the rest of the minyan at the other end of the line.

Rabbi Daniel finished the fourth reading and the closing blessing, then he cleared his throat, taking a moment before Clark's part of the service. “Ta’amod, Miriam bat Betzalel, ha’Rishona,” he called Martha up for her aliyah. She stepped up to the table, touched her tallit to the spot Clark was about to read and kissed it, then began her opening blessing in a clear voice:

ברכו את יי המברך

The congregation came in with the response: 

ברוך יי המברך לעולם ועד

Kitty sat ready. She had the next aliyah in a minute.

Jonathan had declined to take an aliyah; he already had more honor, and more pressure, than he knew what to do with as Clark's translator. It was on him to let Rabbi Daniel and the listeners in Wichita hear Clark chant his parsha. Despite knowing the words by heart at this point, he _could not_ cheat.

"Amen," everyone chorused. Martha stepped aside. 

Clark glided into place. Jonathan closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and spoke as an echo of Clark. "Amen," they chanted, loud and clear, and Clark began the reading.

וידבר יהוה, אל-משה לאמר . . .

  
.

Rabbi Daniel thanked Kitty and motioned her to the side; Jonathan snuck a sip of water. Last reading. Here was the all-important part. "Ya’amod, Chaim ben Yonatan v’Miriam, ha'Maftir."

Clark, who they had named Chaim when he was still so new to them that they could barely perceive him in broad daylight, stepped up once more, touched his tallit to the Torah and kissed it, then sang out his own aliyah. He started a little before Jonathan was ready. Jonathan ran a syllable behind; he opened his eyes for a moment to orient himself.

Rabbi Daniel shivered, blinking hard but carefully keeping the yod in his hand pointed at the correct line. Kitty and Martha watched with their eyes closed; Martha was sniffling. Jonathan closed his eyes again to watch his son finish the blessing. "Amen." They launched into the last reading.

* * *

The spring flooding had the creek overflowing its banks by several soggy feet to either side. Martha picked around carefully when the water receded, prodding for any hidden sinkholes that might break an ankle later. Clark said there weren't, which was a good sign, but she wasn't sure exactly how detail-minded he was on the subject.

"That's a strange one," Clark said. "Over here, by the boulder."

Martha went to see. A rust-red stone projectile point was caught in the crack under the larger rock, washed clean by the stream. She bent to pick it up for him. "Arrowhead. Good eye."

"A real one? That someone actually hunted with?"

"Uh-huh." She focused on keeping her footing as she got back to solid ground. Her knees and back weren't thrilled with the extra balance work. "Comes part and parcel with living on stolen land."

Clark's attention popped up, full-force. "Stolen?"

She realized she'd taken it for granted. They must have gone over this, though perhaps not in enough detail. "Yes. There were already people living here, whole nations of people, and the US government stole it for settlers to take over."

Clark's eyes were enormous. The awareness of him trembled in and out. "Do we have to give it back? Will you have to leave?"

Right. They'd let the social studies curriculum go far too slack. "It's more complicated than that. No, we're not going anywhere. But it's not right, what happened. We talked about this. With the colonies, and Thanksgiving, and western expansion?"

"But you didn't say _stolen_."

They'd left it too long. They'd grown complacent, in endless storytime. They'd talked about the ugly parts of both the past and the present as often as subjects came up naturally, and they tried not to sugarcoat it, but they'd put off many hard truths for their dreamy, tenderhearted boy who had no head for tragedy. No time like the present. "It was a lot worse than stolen," she said.

.

"Let's see," she said, grimly opening _Lies My Teacher Told Me_ to the bookmark. "Where were we." The room went suspiciously quiet. "Clark, get back here. I'm not reading this for my health."

"Sorry." Clark made himself present again. "It's just so awful."

"It is. But if we don't learn from the past, we'll get to do it all over again. You can't mend the world until you understand how it's broken."

" _I_ can't mend it at all! I can barely even make people hear me. I can't _do_ anything!" His illusory voice cracked under the influence of illusory hormones. It had mostly settled, but she suspected his age wandered when he was stressed.

"I don't believe that," she said. "Every time someone visits the farm and leaves a little happier, you're doing what you can. And if you have a chance to do more, it's your responsibility to be ready."

"I'll never get the chance." He sank moodily into the couch.

"That doesn't excuse you from the responsibility." She had to find a way to bring it down to earth. "If you want to take care of people, you have to understand what they need. To understand what they need, you have to learn where they're coming from. History's where _everyone's_ coming from. It helps us see where we're going."

Clark was quiet. "Could you get my pillow?" he finally said.

"Sure, baby." She stood up from the couch and headed down the hall to the spare room where his blanket lay in afternoon sun. "I'd like that too. This stuff's hard work."

* * *

Jonathan wiped the sweat from his hands and paused the audiobook of _Dune_. "How's it going?" he asked.

"Good," Clark said. "Truck two's loaded. They think the yield's good, and we're singing Hips Don't Lie. And Cartoonist got a text from his girlfriend and the baby's okay, so —"

"Clark."

"Sorry. Everyone's real happy. And I scared a weasel off from the chicken coop. Ma's setting up for watermelon slushies with lunch. Remember water."

"Thanks." Jonathan started the book again and took a long swig from his water bottle. Always more to do.

There was a clatter, and shouts of alarm.

"Run," Clark said. "He'll be okay, but you should run."

.

Three of their temp workers sat or lay in the shade of the truck, listlessly swallowing frozen watermelon. "Nothing's torn," Clark said. "Their muscles hurt and everything's bruised, but they'll be okay. They'll be okay."

"What happened?" Jonathan asked. Clark was conspicuously silent.

"Damnedest thing," Diego said. "Grain cart started to slide, and he dug his heels in like he could stop it all by himself. Damn fool stunt. The other two just about ripped their own arms off keeping it off him long enough to get out."

Martha came running with the first aid kit and bags to make ice packs. "Let's have a look. You first, any stabbing pains?"

"What happened," Jonathan repeated under his breath.

"He wanted to catch it," Clark said, "and he didn't want to think about it hurting. I was trying to help. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry."

"I need to know how it hurts," Martha said pointedly. All three men shuddered in shock, breathing harder.

Diego lowered his voice. "That's three guys down. How you want to handle this?"

"Worker's Comp exists for a reason," Jonathan said. Since everyone was standing around anyway, he called break early and enlisted a couple of people to help him carry out the lunch tubs. "No one's that strong," he said.

"I know," Clark said. "I'm sorry. I didn't think. I thought I could help. Ma's finished checking them over and we'll rest in the house until Doc comes."

Jonathan made up plates and brought them to the wilted workers draped across the living room. "Sorry about this," he said.

"S'okay," said the would-be hero of the grain cart. "You're still the best farm on this loop."

"Yeah?"

"Flies don't bite," he said. His eyes drifted closed. "Sun's not as hot." And he was asleep.

* * *

August was heavy and sticky, the kind of heat where clothes wouldn't dry on the line. The cycle of the year hit a slower beat, when there wasn't much to do but watch the corn grow. That was a lie. There was always more to do. But it was Saturday and it was beautiful, so Martha hauled out the picnic gear.

"Should we even pretend we're going to play checkers?" she asked.

"Nah," Jonathan said. "Dream reading. We left off on _Midnight's Children_ just when it was getting good."

"In February," she said.

"I'm sure he can remind us."

"I can," Clark said. The depth of his voice caught Martha off guard, as it did every so often. It was hard to square the strong-jawed, graceful man lounging against the tree trunk with the round-faced child or the coltish teen, all knees and elbows. His pale blue eyes were the same, and the mane of his hair, never tamed by mortal instruments.

They ate lunch slowly, piling chicken salad on slices of challah and dipping vegetables from their garden patch in avocado dressing. They enjoyed the deep shade under the tree and listened to the gurgle of the stream. They lay on their backs and felt the world turn.

"You should start the book," Clark said. Martha swatted the play button.

Not much changed at first. "The Fisherman's Pointing Finger," the narrator read.

Birds rustled and chirped. The tree began to glow, lines of fire outlining each leaf until they lay beneath a jeweled canopy. It winked and twinkled at them as they wandered through the strange, cluttered house of the novel, then fell into the nursery painting, following the direction of the titular pointing finger and floating out above the ocean.

* * *

"Wind's right," Clark said. Jonathan felt his pent-up excitement. "It might last all day."

It was barely 6:30. "Then it'll last until I've finished my pancakes, won't it." He ate faster, though, and gulped his coffee.

"How are your new chicks doing?" Martha asked.

"They're just fine, Ma, and they're mostly asleep."

"Coop's gonna be a lot more colorful from now on," Jonathan said around a mouthful of pancake and blueberries.

"They're very nice. Thank you." Clark would not be distracted by fancy chickens. He drifted up and down in his chair and picked at his blueberries until they'd finished eating.

"I'll get the dishes," Martha said. "You get out there before he vibrates through the ceiling."

Jonathan jogged out to the yard, stunt kite tucked under one arm and blanket draped over his shoulders for Clark to copy. The wind was perfect, a steady, driving breeze that swept the sky into combed wisps of cloud.

He unfurled the kite, closing his eyes so the sunlight off the metallic fabric wouldn't blind him. He placed it on the ground, laid out the lines, and got a good grip on both handles. Then he tugged gently to nose it up into the sky.

The wind took it immediately. Clark whooped. His blanket fluttered out behind him as he launched after it. He copied the kite for his clothes; two red and blue birds flashed in the sun.

Jonathan used Clark's eyes and Clark used Jonathan's hands. Between them, the kite weaved in loops and sharp turns. Clark danced a duet with it, or maybe a trio if you counted the wind.

Martha stood near the house, watching the dance and laughing along with them. Kansas spread out below them, and the endless sky above.

* * *

Martha studied the silver maple with pursed lips. She didn't like what she saw. "Look how it's leaning," she said.

"Can we prop it up?" Clark asked.

"No, hon. However many tons of tree trunk there, even if we could push it up to straight, there's nothing strong enough to keep it up when the next windstorm catches it and tosses it around again. It's not safe. It'll have to come down."

"But it's my favorite."

"I know. Mine too." She could still point out the spot where she'd poured an alien child's remains into the ground. She could smell the fresh-cut soil. "We'll leave the stump, though. And you'll still be here."

Clark said nothing. He radiated worry.

"Things pass, Clark."

She had just turned sixty, and Jonathan the year before. She'd been thinking more and more on preparing Clark for the inevitable. They needed to find willing and perceptive heirs for the property somehow. People who would love the land and love Clark. It was barely scraping by as a farm already, but maybe they could will it to the synagogue, get it set up as a ranch camp; Kansas could use one. Then Clark would have more company than he knew what to do with in the summer, and at least a caretaker in the winter.

"Things pass," she repeated. "Jonathan's great-grandpa planted this tree, and it's had a good run. But we've gotta let it go when it's time. Come on inside, let's call the tree guy."

.

They couldn't keep the wood. Maple was no good for fenceposts, and none of them could stomach the thought of firewood. Letting the tree guy keep it to sell on would get them a much-needed discount.

They had one last picnic on the safer side of the tree that morning. They tried to be light about it, but everything had an edge of dread. Clark wasn't just sad, he was terrified, and his feelings were always contagious.

They finished breakfast in silence. Jonathan suggested watching something on TV to pass the time, but they didn't have the heart. They watched the road in silence until the tree guy showed up. They huddled together in silence, watching him section off the bigger limbs, then cut it down.

When the trunk hit the ground with an earthshaking _thump_ , Martha went weak in the knees with relief that Clark was still there. She'd been afraid, terribly sure something would happen.

"It's all right, Clark," Jonathan said. "We'll be all right."

They went back inside and didn't watch the truck being loaded. "Let's see about some lunch," Martha said. Her hands weren't steady, but Clark was following her around the kitchen like he had since he was a baby. It would be all right.

"I love you, Ma," Clark said, and he faded out like it was sunset.

She held her breath and waited a minute. Jonathan came tearing into the kitchen. "Is he with you?"

Martha shook her head. She sat down on the kitchen floor and sobbed.

* * *

It was a bad year. They kept up with the work, because if you didn't keep up with the work, then you didn't have a farm.

Jonathan kept talking to empty air. He heard Martha doing it too. They didn't talk to each other about it. They kept buying red things, in case it somehow lured him back. They draped his blanket in their bedroom where the sun would warm it all day. Nothing but a suggestion of a presence here and there, in the kitchen or out by the barn or walking the fenceline. Nothing but wishful thinking.

They didn't admit it to anyone else until Rabbi Daniel called to check on them that autumn, just before the new year. Sitting shiva would have felt like giving up, and there was no time in the summer anyway. But when he hadn't shown up to eat apples and honey with them, when he hadn't sat on his blanket with them and copied bread to throw into the stream, when they hadn't heard even a whisper of him singing Kol Nidre with them, and when, finally, he hadn't come to prove them wrong when they fasted and asked forgiveness of his memory for putting off their grief for so long, they knew it was time.

They did not build the sukkah, as they couldn't find it in themselves to celebrate. As soon as the harvest was in, they invited people over.

Rabbi Daniel came, and some of the congregation who had attended his bar mitzvah or heard tell of him or would show up for any family on principle. Neighbors they trusted and friends from town, including the recently retired librarian. A few of Martha's old friends who had fallen far enough out of touch that they wouldn't be shocked to learn she had a son. Kitty flew in for a couple of days, and brought her husband.

They said Kaddish for their son, but only after sundown and before sunrise. Just in case.

.

When the high holidays had come and gone again, they placed a stone out by the tree stump, and planted a sapling.

.

Martha didn't say, but Jonathan knew she still held out a hope. She would startle sometimes, especially while cooking, or hum one part of a round when she thought he couldn't hear. She wasn't letting go. He couldn't blame her, but it wore on him. Especially in high summer, when the days were so long.

Especially when he felt it himself. Grief was like that.

Round about sunset, while he was straightening up the living room so they could eat on the couch, Jonathan thought he felt him, strong as life.

"Pa!" the ghost cried. "I —" And gone.

Jonathan sighed. He heard a crash from the kitchen. There went supper, probably. "I love you too, son."

The doorbell rang.

"Could you get it?" Martha called from the kitchen, her voice ragged.

"Yeah. On it." Jonathan went to get the door.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Footnotes on the Kent family's Jewish culture and practice got long. They're over here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100760/chapters/68851146)
> 
> [Note: the author is not Jewish. I actively welcome Jewish readers’ feedback, good or bad, on this and all other chapters.]
> 
> * * *
> 
> Fun Fact: [Kitty Pryde](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitty_Pryde)'s early codenames included "Ariel" and "Sprite." I did not go looking for this information and it's not why she gets a cameo. It just happened.
> 
> [Stunt kites](https://youtu.be/jnsH7Ssacpc?t=103) can do ridiculous maneuvers.


	8. Clark

Ariel stared around at the miles of cornfields as they blurred past. His hair reflected the late afternoon light.

"Are you sure you don't need me to slow down so you can look?" Bruce asked.

"No, I can see fine." Ariel sounded distracted. His body's relationship with the seat of the rented BMW was tenuous. "Everything's just real familiar. I think I've been all over here. Nothing's sticking out."

"Hm." Bruce took him at his word and sped up. "And you're sure you were out in the country."

"Farm. Corn, mostly. Ma and Pa would go into town, but I couldn't go with them, except maybe the ways I was there a little already."

"Needle in a cornfield." They kept driving. Kansas was a confetti of scattered prisms, and, high summer or not, they would lose the light eventually.

They slowed down enough to avoid the speed trap going through yet another dot on the map, population 3000. "The field behind the library's great for touch football," Ariel said absently.

Bruce resisted the urge to throw the car into a screeching U-turn. He drove around the block and pulled over to sit in the library parking lot, facing a small park where a handful of teenagers were indeed playing touch football. "So you've been here? Enough to remember."

"Yeah. But not for a while."

"Did you ever see Ma or Pa here?"

"Ma would check out books for us."

"In this library."

"Yeah." Ariel ducked his head. "I guess I should have mentioned that."

"We got there." Bruce pondered the short drag of Smallville's main street. Two restaurants, one with a bar. "Did they ever bring home food from town?"

Ninety minutes and a passable steak-and-eggs later, Bruce was headed north as fast as the poorly maintained roads would take him.

.

"There!" Ariel said. "Here, this is it!" He pointed at a stand of trees, sticking his arm through the window in his excitement.

Bruce captured the landmarks with his eyes and the geolocation with his phone. He didn't slow down. "Great. Almost there."

"We passed it! There's the turn!"

"We'll come back. I just need to set up a few things." He called the Batwing from its last hiding place and checked the topo map for a likely spot. There was a good candidate five kilometers away, which at the speeds he could manage on these potholes would let the plane arrive shortly after he did.

Ariel hovered around him impatiently while Bruce got the plane safely landed and concealed. "You could have just brought it to the house."

Bruce got back in the car and started back toward the target before saying, "Ariel, it is very important to me that you don't tell your parents about the bats or the cave or the plane. _Nothing_ about what I do at night."

"I know. I just. You can trust them."

"Let me decide when I can trust them." They rode in silence until they passed the house again.

"They're right there! You're doing this on purpose." Ariel was getting angry.

"I am. It's necessary." Bruce pulled over, just long enough a walk from the driveway that he'd be pathetically dusty by the time he reached their doorstep. He popped the hood of the car and pulled a multitool from his pocket.

"It's almost dark!"

"I'm sorry. They'll still be there tomorrow, and I need an excuse to sound them out."

"The excuse could be that I'm _right there_ and I say you should stay!"

"You're just going to have to trust me on this one." He made two subtle adjustments to the engine and melted a hole in one inconvenient location. He tried to ignore the aura of misery from over his shoulder. This was necessary. "We don't have an hour to make sure you convince them before sundown. But if we're quick, you might still get to see them tonight."

He grabbed Ariel's rolling luggage and headed toward the house, dragging it behind him for maximum dust. Ariel kept sullen pace beside him, fading in Bruce's periphery just as he reached the front porch.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said. "I am. You'll see them tomorrow." He rang the doorbell. The mezuzah affixed above it was Ariel's favorite shade of red.

* * *

"What is it _doing_?" Lex studied the probabilistic heatmap.

"Driving across Kansas via backroads, apparently." The signal specialist switched to a different view that showed a broad wobble of possible paths overlaid on a roadmap. "All morning. The signal blinked out last night in Gotham and woke up near Wichita."

"Woke up?"

The tech flinched. "Figure of speech."

"Keep me posted."

* * *

"Huh." The man who had answered the door (last name Kent, according to both the mailbox and the bartender) poked around in the engine while Bruce held a flashlight. "Line's melted through."

"Thanks for trying. I've got the AAA number in here somewhere." Bruce dug inefficiently through the paperwork in the glovebox. "I can't believe I knocked the phone charger loose. Any idea how long it'll take them to get out here? I guess I'll need to call the hotel, too. I have the number . . ." He pinched the bridge of his nose. "In my phone. Okay. I can figure this out."

The man looked at him with bemused pity. "What's your name, son?"

Bruce bit down on the lie that matched his current ID. "Bruce."

"Jonathan." He held out a greasy hand. "You're not getting to your hotel tonight, Bruce. Come on in."

.

Bruce sipped water and observed how many red decorations dotted the room, from the rim of his water glass and the throw pillows on the couch to the candles on the mantelpiece. Martha, who had just brought him water, showed signs of recent crying.

"Thank you so much. Everything all right?"

"Oh, I'm fine." She gave him a shaky smile. "Just thought I saw something and I startled. Glass everywhere." She shared a look with Jonathan, and he squeezed her shoulder.

Hell. Bruce cursed his paranoia. Not everything required plans within plans. He should have just come to the door, he should have . . . It could still be subliminal. They might not know what they knew. "Someone here likes red," he said lightly.

Martha paled and excused herself. Bruce felt a stab of guilt. Ariel had been right, and Bruce shouldn't have wasted the twenty minute opportunity that was now making them live one more night thinking he was lost.

"Well. Let's get the couch made up," Jonathan said. He wasn't making eye contact.

"Wait. Martha? Sorry, could you come back a second?"

"Gimme a minute," she called. "Something in my eye." Water ran in the kitchen sink.

Jonathan glared. If Bruce got this wrong, he'd be sleeping in his car, or possibly his plane if he really botched it.

She emerged, hair damp around the edges and face blotchy. "Yes?"

"I've been spending time with your son," he said.

They went silent. They did not deny having a son.

"He's here. I brought him. I'm sorry about the car. It took me a long time to remember he was there. Longer to realize he was real. You might have thought I was insane."

Martha sat down.

Bruce unzipped his luggage and brought out the crystal.

"What on earth?" she said. He held it out for them to touch. They did so reluctantly.

"This is his main source, as far as I can tell, and it amplifies the others with proximity. But the smaller prisms will cast him faintly even if this one's dark."

"Cast him. The prisms — Thirty _years_ , and we never even thought." She shook her head.

"I think something hid it from us. He didn't know either, until I did. This was cut out of a tree. Do you know how it got there?"

"Better'n he did, at least," Jonathan said. "We tried telling him a couple of times and it just slid off. So it might be best if we tell you now, while he's not here to be troubled."

"We thought we'd killed him," Martha whispered. "We really thought we'd killed him, and that catching flickers of him in the kitchen was just . . . All this time." She straightened up. "We better start at the beginning."

.

"Clark. After my grandfather," Martha said.

"Of blessed memory," Bruce said. "He could remember the honorific, but not the rest. You can guess where I went with that."

"Oh, no _._ " Martha covered her mouth. "Though, in fairness, he _was_ dead."

"He asked me to call him Ariel."

" _Ariel_? Like the mermaid?" Jonathan grinned. "That boy and names."

"Like the sprite from the Tempest. In a cloven pine."

"Of _course_. We thought he just liked it for the shipwreck. Remember the year he wanted to be called Merlin and kept pretending to be trapped in a hawthorn tree?" Martha held her arms up, making herself tall and narrow.

.

Bruce rolled the fine red fabric between his fingers, marveling at the weave and tamping down the desire to get it under a microscope and a spectrograph. "He showed me this so many times."

"He'd have carried it around with him all day if he could," Martha said. All three of them held handfuls of the blanket.

"He dreamed your sukkah for me and dragged it in there. I still thought I was making him up. Couldn't figure out why a figment of my imagination was so observant. My family was mostly in it for the food, really."

"And ours had never really made the time," Martha said. "Having a ghost child fall into our laps . . . We'd been given a gift, you know? We had to do right by him. And he loved that darn thing. Didn't have the heart to tell him we were sneaking into the house as soon as the sun went down."

.

"So," Jonathan said. The tone of the room shifted. "You didn't say how you came across this."

Bruce had been nursing a slim hope that they would forget to ask. "I, ah, bought it. At auction."

"That can't have been pocket change."

"Depends on the pockets." He found himself desperate to keep the good opinion of Ariel's parents. "I'm Bruce Wayne. Of Wayne Enterprises. Please don't believe what you read in the papers. I plant half of it myself."

In the stunned pause, Martha said, "Why?"

"Because everyone's happy to cheat a drunk at poker, and business deals involve a lot of bluffing."

.

"And then he jumped down from the tree, like to land on my head, with his shadow blanket waving all over like a cape, but he'd forgotten pants again." Martha waved her arms for emphasis.

Bruce laughed so hard his eyes watered.

"All right." She yawned. "None of us are as young as we used to be, and _someone_ is going to be bouncing on all our beds come six. Let's get that couch made up."

"I can sleep in my clothes. It's fine. Really."

"You'll do no such thing. Or if you do, you'll do it between real sheets. Scoot." She shooed him off the couch.

"Thank you," Jonathan said to him quietly. "She's been . . . It's been a hard couple of years."

* * *

"He's circling the original area of analysis," Lex said. "Might just be fishing, but I don't see him taking days out of his schedule for a hunch."

"You think he's there in person?" Mercy asked.

"Barbados? Please. He only uses Barbados when he doesn't want people checking up to find he's not there. With the master crystal as a component, he may have developed a better detector. Possibly something for dowsing specimens that are still in the dark." The possibilities spread out before him, then coalesced into the cleanest possible strategy. Let Wayne do the legwork. "But unless he's much, much better than I think he is, if he finds something major, it'll have to come out into the light before he can get it under wraps. Have air support standing by."

* * *

Bruce woke to a cacophony of chickens from somewhere behind the house.

"They remember me!" Ariel said from right beside his ear. "The older ones, anyway. I wasn't sure if they would. Chickens aren't too bright."

"Oh. Good." Bruce rubbed his eyes. Muffled conversation from down the hall told him Clark was socializing in parallel. A question occurred. "Were you friends with the animals around the manor, too?"

"I try not to get attached to wildlife," Ariel said. "It's too hard to resist playing favorites."

His vowels had more Midwestern twang and his sentences seemed richer, more complex. Bruce had assumed his increased coherence over time had been due to clearer perception on Bruce's part, but maybe Ariel was dependent on shared history. That would explain —

"Less woolgathering, more breakfast," Ariel said.

.

Bruce was not permitted to help with breakfast. He sat at the table with his eyes closed, watching the Kents move around each other with practiced ease to produce an enormous stack of waffles and fried eggs. The prism got a place of honor on the kitchen counter. Jonathan muttered a quick blessing, and Bruce joined the "Amen" on muscle memory.

The eggs were fresh from the yard, as were the strawberries. Ariel chattered with his parents about crop yields, on which Bruce could not contribute, and books, on which he could. A tour of the farm was devised, and a kite-flying exhibition if the wind cooperated.

Everything should be perfect. Maybe it was the days spent cooped up in the driver's seat, a lack of practice with sustained positive emotions, or just Ariel's anticipation of the property tour, but Bruce was restless. He insisted on helping with the dishes, and they headed outside immediately, with Ariel bringing up the rear. Bruce carried the crystal.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Ariel asked.

"Everything's fine," Bruce said. Neither Kent joined him on that.

Martha said, "We try not to put off hard talks. It never makes them easier. And we thought maybe, with your friend here, and now that we know about the prisms, there's something you might be ready to hear."

Ariel drew back. "Okay," he said.

"You fell from the sky, Clark. That's how that great big crystal landed in the good tree. That's not all that fell. Do you remember anything about that?"

"No," he said. He did not sound confident on that point. They walked toward the barn.

"There was a ship," Jonathan said. "A little life pod that didn't do its job right. You with us, Clark?"

"I. Yeah. Yes. I'm trying. It's slippery."

"We kept the pod," Martha said. "There are a whole lot more of the crystals with it, too. We didn't want to show you until you were ready to think about it, but now we're wondering if lighting up the motherlode is what you need to look at it straight on. What do you think?"

They waited. "Okay," Clark said. "Yes. I should look. If there's more crystals, I want to see them."

Bruce waited with him while the Kents shifted something in the barn. Everyone had sunglasses, at least, and he'd warned them to look away. He'd have offered to help, but he was supposed to be a rich man from the city, incapable of lifting a fraction of what work-hardened farmers could manage.

"Coming out," Martha called. They dragged a two-meter ovoid shape into the light. As soon as it reached open sunlight, Bruce set down the central prism and turned away.

"Oh my gosh," Clark said. He ran forward to stand in the pod, up to his ankles in glowing crystals. "There's so many." He was brighter than Bruce had ever seen. The individual fibers of his plaid shirt came into focus, and every strand of hair. "It's safe, I think. They're not overexcited, they're just doing what they're supposed to."

Cautiously, Bruce turned back and opened his eyes. Clark stood fully visible, blinking at them. Martha Kent had both hands over her mouth. Jonathan reached out to test; Clark tried to touch, and their fingers paused a moment, faintly resisting before passing through.

"Oh, son," Jonathan said. He seemed to struggle for words, then settled on, "Do you remember?"

"Not exactly," Clark said. "But it's not hiding, it's just that I was a baby. Thinking back that far's all fuzzy. It's the right fuzzy, though. I can look at it. Oh. I'm sorry you were so ripped up, finding it like that."

"It's all right, baby," Martha said. "It brought us you."

Bruce knew he was intruding on something sacred. If he lightened his step and walked backwards, they wouldn't notice him giving them space. A sharp glance from Ariel told him the thought had been heard and found ridiculous. Bruce stayed put.

"You mind telling us what the crystals are?" Jonathan asked.

"Such a romantic," Martha snapped.

"It's just been itching me for a couple decades, that's all."

"I think . . . Huh. They're, it's talking. To itself. I think I . . ." He trailed off and tilted his head, listening to private, alien music.

* * *

"Sir, whatever it is, we've got it. Mile radius, and the signal is off the charts."

Lex smiled at the bright pinpoint on the map. "Run it down. And kill the grid, hard shutdown. Let's not tip our hand."

* * *

"It's a book!" Ariel seemed amazed and a little terrified, his eyes distant. "It's a book, it's, it's the only copy. And I'm living in it. Sort of."

"What kind of book?"

"It's a record, a. It's." His face twisted in concentration. "Sorry, it's hard. I'm not supposed to look over there or I might change it, and I _can't_ change it, it's too important."

"What is?"

"Oh." He went almost transparent. His eyes filled with tears. He sat down and put his hand on the pod. "It's a world. Krypton. They were dying, they, it was all going to . . . There would be no one left to remember."

He stopped talking. They waited in the silence.

"So they put a baby in a basket and shot him into space hoping he'd find a soft landing," Martha said. "With a copy of the Big Book of Everything, for when he was old enough to read it."

"Yeah," Ariel said. "Yeah, that's, that's basically right."

She sat down in the dirt beside him and put a hand near his back. "I'd say that's a terrible weight to put on a child, but I don't suppose they had much choice."

"Payload space must have been tight," Bruce said without thinking, "or they'd have sent someone older."

"Or more than one," Jonathan said under his breath.

Ariel nodded. "And they had to get the book out. But now it's all over everywhere." He passed his hand through the crystals heaped in the broken egg. "But it's . . . It's enough now. It couldn't see enough pieces in one place before. Now it's enough, it can build."

Bruce's skin prickled with wary instinct. "Build what?" he asked in unison with Jonathan.

Ariel put both hands to his insubstantial head. "A. A temple. Monument. Library. Memorial. A place to remember." He looked up. "It'll need all the space," he said quietly. "All of it."

"The space that you're using," Martha said. It wasn't a question.

"Then it can wait," Bruce snapped. "It can wait until we figure something out."

"It wants it _now_. It's been —" Ariel shuddered, doubling over, then blinked. "He's coming. Not him. His people. The beacons, all the beacons, he was searching, by the echoes, and they all went brighter just now, I could feel the techs all brighter, they were glad they figured it out so he'd stop scaring them, and those all went dark and there was the sick radiation feeling _._ " He hovered up and looked at Bruce with urgent horror. "They're coming _here_. And then the book will never get to build, and —" He glanced at his parents. He didn't have to spell it out. " _Please_."

"He?" Jonathan asked.

"Lex Luthor. You may have heard of him." Bruce ran a hand through his hair. "All right. Step one, cover those up for transport. Don't give him any more chances to track it."

"Tarp," Jonathan said, and ran into the barn.

"Step two, we split up. I can protect Clark and the book, but I can't take two passengers. Do you have somewhere to lie low?"

Martha gave him a fierce grin. "The McKinleys aren't much for government. Corporations with private armies qualify. They're about twenty miles off. Let me get the go-bags." She paused. "But you won't get far in a broken-down rental."

"Unfortunately true." It would take at least half an hour to fix what he'd done to the engine. Even if he convinced the Kents to leave without him, bringing the Batwing straight to the farm would bring Luthor's goons along with it. He looked at Ariel. Ariel looked right back. They'd shared their son with him. They'd trusted him with thirty years of secrets. "I'll need a ride to my plane. Three miles south."


	9. A Hope

"Well," Martha said, looking at the Batwing. "I suppose you can see him safe if anyone can."

"I'll try," Bruce said. He hopped out of the truck bed, carrying the cracked egg. He had kept the source prism strapped to the outside to give the Kents as many minutes together as he could.

"Would you uncover the rest, please?" Ariel sounded hesitant.

"It's a risk."

"Not for long."

Bruce pulled the tarp free of the crystals and set the largest on top for good measure. They flared into brilliance.

Clark focused to nearly opaque. He reached out his arms to circle them around his parents. They closed their eyes; their faces smoothed in a way Bruce recognized as a practiced altered state, and they moved their arms to define a space around him in return. Bruce heard subvocal murmurs, but did his best not to listen in. He prepped the plane and pulled out the passenger seat to make room for the egg.

"Okay," Ariel said from the passenger side. He vanished completely.

Bruce accepted the rewrapped egg from Jonathan and maneuvered it in. Jonathan had tucked the red blanket into the tarp. "Phones. If anyone checks your cell signals, you'll be in the plane with me."

He handed each of them an earwig in exchange, showed them how to activate the comms, and called home. "Pennyone?"

"Ah, B. How goes the voyage of discovery? Have you found yourself yet?"

"Company. You have Jonathan and Martha Kent on comms. I'm drawing off pursuit and they're going to ground. You're our insurance if Luthor gets too close. All playbooks acceptable."

"All, sir?"

"Don't blow up the house if you can help it. Take care. I'm going dark." He switched off before Alfred could respond.

"Thank you," Jonathan said.

"No matter what happens," Martha said.

"I'm bringing him back," Bruce said. "Get moving."

.

He didn't unwrap the egg until they were over Wyoming. As soon as Ariel appeared, he said, "North."

"North?"

"North. North. It wants the magnetic pole."

"Your alien book wants to access a key point on my planet's magnetic field."

"It won't hurt it. It just needs to be there to think better."

"To build its history exhibit."

"You're angry."

"I'm not giving it what it wants until I understand the ramifications better. And find you a new living situation." Bruce changed course a few degrees west toward the Pacific.

Ariel looked out the window. "I like it up here. There is no other living situation."

"Then it can wait until we change that."

"It _can't_ wait. It was never supposed to wait this long, and it finally has enough pieces, and it's trying so hard to become that I don't know what'll happen if we keep blocking it. And the light's best right now."

"The solstice."

"Yes."

"There's another one in six months."

"It won't _work_! It'll shake itself apart if it can't do its job. The book'll get all confused, and it will never, ever get unlost."

"I've raised a teenager. 'I'll hold my breath until I get what I want' doesn't work on me."

"A whole world. Bat, please."

"And if the monument covers my whole world?"

"It won't."

"Do you have dimensions on that?"

Ariel scrunched his face up. "Like a house. Maybe like your house. About that size."

"And how will it share its information?"

A longer pause. "It'll sit there unless someone comes to talk with it. Or unless someone moves reflectors out to talk with it, like your comms. It'll stay where it's put. Even if no one comes. It'll just sit."

"At the North Pole."

"Yes."

Bruce searched for something, anything, any objection other than the obvious. "And you?"

A very long quiet. "Please."

"How much of this is it thinking through you? Refracting?"

"Some. I can feel how much it wants it. But I'm choosing. It's important. I think it's important."

"Ariel. You will die."

"Everyone dies. And I already did."

"You exist. You think. You change. That's a life. And this will be a death."

"I'm a memory. An idea. A hope, maybe. And this is a bigger one. I'm not saying . . . I'd love to stay. This feels right, though. It's what I'm for. You understand. You've made this choice. Some things are worth it."

" _Nothing_ is worth more than a life!"

Ariel went still. "It's my life," he said, "and this is worth it. Don't be a hypocrite. Time's a'wastin'."

Bruce kept his attention on the controls and the terrain, even though it only made Ariel clearer. "And if I turn the plane around and don't take you?" Ariel could hate him forever. But Ariel would live.

No answer, just silent pain and the certainty that Bruce was bluffing.

"Damn you." Bruce changed course.

"Thank you, Bat." Ariel's head brushed his shoulder as long as Bruce kept his eyes forward and his hands on the yoke.

They flew in silence for a while. Geography slipped past, then the bright white of clouds. Bruce corrected upward to stay in full sun.

"Will you take a nap with me?" Ariel asked.

"I'm flying the plane."

"The plane flies itself, and you don't see any bad weather."

Bruce grimly acknowledged to himself that holding his breath until he turned blue would not make the clock stop ticking. Ariel deserved better. Bruce deserved better, if he could get out of his own way for five minutes. He set the autopilot, relaxed back into his seat, and sank into the deepest conscious state he could find. He unmoored his reason. He focused, unfocused. He slipped away. He slipped toward.

.

"Thank you." Ariel was himself, and the nest of glittering shards, and the play of rainbows throughout the cockpit, and the soft pressure of a hand on Bruce's knee. His teeth and eyes glittered. His blanket was a shower of rubies.

"Of course. I'm sorry. I don't always make the best decisions when I'm awake."

"We got there. Want to go for a walk?"

"Sure." They walked down a spiral stairway of white amorphous fog to emerge in what might be Death Valley. The landmarks were too dream-blurred to be certain.

"This is where you figured it out," Ariel said. "Right here is where it got so bright. I'd never seen so clearly. Clearly enough to tell you about it. You should thank him for that. He'll be furious." Clark had his mother's vindictive smile. He ran his hand along the rim of a three-meter Fresnel lens, casting a black shadow with a pinpoint white center that turned the alkaline sand to glass.

"It's a satisfying thought." As was finding an excuse to break Luthor's nose in public. Later. He could do that later.

"I'm glad we figured it out. I missed my folks. And I could never choose. Not until you. Having choices is better."

"I'll never agree with this choice." Bruce walked them around to the roof of the downtown precinct, where the light side of the Fresnel lens was the Bat-signal.

"But you're letting me make it." With an effort, Ariel dragged the signal up and down, shining the beacon across adjoining buildings with childish delight.

"Yes." Bruce helped. Gordon wouldn't mind; it was for a good cause. "Come over here. This one's my favorite." He aimed the light at the roofline of the cathedral so they could cross.

There wasn't as much streetlight over there, and Ariel wouldn't feel relaxed for long. Bruce decided there could be such a thing as a reverse eclipse, and Gotham's night sky was plunged into momentary day. He hunkered down beside his favorite gargoyle. Ariel mirrored him. The gargoyle winked at them.

"You don't spot much crime here, though."

"No. I just like it."

"Here's my favorite tall spot." They still balanced on matching specialized boots, but nestled among maple leaves as broad as dinner plates. The central prism stuck out of the fork between them, the split still fresh and leaking sap. A dream of a baby balled up inside it, trying to hide in his blanket. They looked down on shadowy figures that moved like the Kents. A criss-cross of paths developed as the shapes accumulated, going about their work, sitting by the stream, moving in the distance. "It took them ages to notice me."

"They're wonderful. I'll make sure they're safe."

"Want to go swimming?"

Bruce looked at the stream. "It's a little shallow."

"Not if we're fish." Ariel swan-dived down, transforming into something bright red and tropical. Bruce opted for an inky black eel and directed them to the Gulf of Mexico where both species would feel at home. Ariel looked around. "You didn't have much fun swimming here."

"No. But I enjoyed catching the people who thought they could hide from me by going underwater."

"Of course you did. There's a good place further down." Ariel flitted ahead of him. They raced each other through the water until they landed on the grass in a tangle of limbs. They lay streamside in a sun-dappled glade, with Ariel warm against Bruce's side. A tiny waterfall cast rainbow mist over them.

"When is this one?" Bruce asked.

"I'm not sure. It's just here. It's where the drowned sailors go."

"You and your shipwrecks. Drowned sailors go to the crustaceans."

" _Of his bones are coral made_ ," Ariel recited. " _Those are pearls that were his eyes_."

They drowsed there for a while, then he rose into the air and gave Bruce a hand up. Bruce's breath caught with desire at the play of light on Ariel's arms and collarbones, but something drew his eye. A path led off into the darker forest. A flutter of black wings. "My turn."

They made their way through increasingly thick foliage, hiking upward until they emerged somewhere in the Hindu Kush. Bruce was sweating and freezing. Every muscle ached. Ariel looked incessantly comfortable, his bare skin shining in the sun.

"Taking you to dinner." Bruce pushed open the door to a one-room house where a pot of barley and beans with yak butter simmered over charcoal. "This is possibly the best meal I've ever eaten." He dipped a generous scoop of it into a bowl, gave a second bowl to Ariel, and gulped it fast enough to scald his mouth.

Ariel did the same. "Oh. Wow." He slurped down the rest of the bowl. "What's in this?"

"A two-day climb after my supplies fell over a cliff." They both had seconds, then leaned against each other, sleepy and happy.

"I want to show you why," Ariel said. "Will you come see?"

They walked out of the house and into an echoing and angular nowhere. Bruce had the fleeting impression of infinite crystalline space, towered over by a figure in a high-collared white robe. It had wild hair, the face of a child, and wide eyes like the night sky. They walked in the palm of its endless hand.

"This way." Ariel tugged on him. They walked on and on, each step a lightyear. The light shifted toward sunset red.

They looked into a crystal bubble to see a miniature city, spires and fountains and tiny flying cars zipping from place to place. It was empty. Bruce reached to see if he could zoom in, but Ariel grabbed his hand before he could touch.

"No. It's too fragile. It's barely holding together as it is."

The city wavered under the glass. The red sun high in the sky licked at it hungrily.

"A whole world. All their ideas. Everything they thought and learned and made."

Bruce turned his back on it and kissed Ariel. "You don't have to convince me. I won't be convinced. But I'll take you there."

"You might, actually. When it's stable. There might be a place for me. I have no idea how this works." Ariel led him away. It was a long walk through the crystal nothing. Ariel made an impatient noise and flew straight up, dragging Bruce along weightlessly by one arm. They shot through the top of the prism and landed on Bruce's bed.

Bruce looked around his bedroom, confused.

"Sorry," Ariel said. "I should probably have thought of somewhere more scenic. I've seen so many places." A disorienting wash of beach houses, riverbanks, sand dunes, hiking trails, and many, many dorm room windows flashed past. "But I just want to be here."

Bruce gathered him in. "Me too."

.

The Batwing's navigation system chirped in warning. Bruce opened his eyes. He guided the plane through the final approach to a safe landing on an open, wind-scoured plain that his instruments informed him was in no particular direction.

He and Ariel looked out across the ice. Neither of them moved.

"I think this is the part where you're supposed to quote the sorcerer," Ariel said.

"I am not quoting Prospero," Bruce said. "I'm figuring out how to run you out there without losing any fingers or toes. I didn't pack for this."

"My blanket's really warm. Try that."

Bruce pulled on his boots and gave the blanket an experimental wrap around his head. He wasn't sure of its efficacy, but he wouldn't get frostbite in a ninety second dash. He shifted the egg around to make a sling out of the tarp. He looked at Ariel. "Last chance. Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. Thank you, Bat." Ariel leaned forward, almost brushing their faces together. "Be careful."

Bruce didn't dignify that with a response. He opened the hatch, hit the ground, dragged the sling down, and slammed it closed again before he had a chance to register the cold. Pulling the tarp behind him like a sled, he sprinted his cargo to three Wayne Manors' distance from the plane. He didn't give himself time to think before picking up the largest prism and spiking it into the ice. He ran back and flung himself into the cockpit.

He rubbed his hands together, breathing hard. "Be free and fare thou well," he said under his breath.

"I knew you'd say it," Ariel said from beside him.

"Shut up."

Ariel curled up against his shoulder. "Will you stay?"

Bruce closed his eyes. "As long as you will."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A relevant portrait of Dream of the Endless](https://comicvine1.cbsistatic.com/uploads/original/0/6179/415895-daniel1.jpg) and [another](https://comicvine1.cbsistatic.com/uploads/original/5/59221/1562824-dreamjla.jpg) (substantial spoilers for Sandman in both).


	10. Mistoffelees

Take a step back and look at the world, a blue gem reflecting the light of a yellow star.

Look at the northern pole, ice-crusted but tilted closest to the light like a sprout reaching for the sun. There's a tiny black smudge there, and an even smaller point of refracted brightness.

In the Batwing, a man sits grieving.

On the ice, the seed matrix judges that it has enough light and power, and that the distributed crystals near it are close enough to make a whole. It can finally begin on its truest and most permanent purpose. This is its one chance to change the world.

It starts by drawing up the ice around itself to build lenses, larger, higher, one resting on another until a beveled dome the size of a house surrounds it. With that power, it draws up a larger dome, an ice bubble as high as a skyscraper. This would have been of some concern to the man in the plane, now enclosed in the dome, but his eyes are closed. There. That will be enough to work with.

It begins on its creation.

.

Look, though he is not visible in the technical sense, at the dream of a man who died before he was old enough to speak, and who has matured only in the minds of those who loved him. He is frightened, but certain. He will help build the temple as best he can. He will not let a world be forgotten.

.

Look at everyone he has dreamed with, from the crystal that cradled him to the children who admired the alien sparkle at a craft fair but could not take it home.

 _Help me_ , he says. _We need the rest of the crystals. We need to see them, to remember. We need the light. Will you help?_

The ones who found him distressing are unsettled and turn away. As always, he does his best to leave them be. The few who live somewhere on the night side of the globe turn restlessly and dream of something they meant to do. The ones who only caught a brief shimmer think it would be nice to go outside, even if it's pouring rain.

The ones who have known him better get an itch behind their eyes. When they blink their eyes closed to rub away the itch, they see him, a shape of light hovering, insubstantial, more real than the shadow of solidity around them. When they open them again, he's still there, hair wild and flaming, eyes wide, a dream of a red drape curling weightless around his waist like a Renaissance painting.

Most of them would have difficulty articulating their feelings about this, but while "awestruck" is in there, it's not the heart of it. Nor is it a sense of any higher authority or overwhelming force. Some might call it "familiarity," if that word could be pronounced with the intensity of a solar fusion reactor. The seed matrix would call it "dreaming-with-with-with-with-with."

.

The eleven-year-old in Florida who feeds all the neighbor cats without telling her parents would call it "like if you just now remembered you knew someone and they came over to your house to say hi but also so you could say hi to all their other friends at once too, and then you can maybe all go to the beach together later." But she is not calling it anything, because her prism is already in optimal light, so she is sitting with her unusually visible friend Mistoffelees who also likes cats, watching it shine.

.

The off-the-grid hippie with a habit of talking to herself, whose trailer windows have gotten too fogged over with incense grime lately, looks up at the spirit and nods. "So that's what you look like." She takes her energy crystal down from over the sink to wash the haze from it in the stream.

.

Rockhounds from Colorado to Kentucky run for their display cases and inventory totes, digging for the prize of their amateur collection or that one bright find they've never quite brought themselves to sell. The ones who already sold theirs are texting the buyers frantically, if they have a contact number, but there's no answer because their buyers are doing the same thing.

.

The bored student working the desk at One More Time Used Books is too short to reach the suncatcher in the window without a ladder, so he carefully knocks it down with the pushbroom and carries it around the building to the afternoon sun in the parking lot. He's thinking he might turn the experience into something for his psych class, maybe a paper on altered states. (He will not do this.)

.

An architect in their home office takes off their headphones, sets aside their laptop, and hauls out the box of decorations they hadn't found the energy to set up since moving to a new apartment. They are humming, because they are usually humming, and the music of the spheres is humming with them again for the first time in months.

.

Lucius Fox stares at the increasingly bright vision, then shakes his head. "Should have figured there was more to it," he says under his breath, even as he reaches for his phone to tell the director of Optics R&D to bring out the prisms, all of them. The director of Optics R&D is one of three people to have left him voicemails in the last minute. They are all asking forgiveness instead of permission.

.

Dr. Abigay Balewa is one of very few LexCorp researchers to have seen a prism in natural light. She glances around the lab. No one else seems struck down with wonder, though a few are rubbing their eyes and staring into space. She cannot do it alone. She checks out the largest sample they have and goes to her director's office. "Dr. Haines," she says, holding the crystal and letting the voice of truth ring through her, "come outside with me. You need to see this."

Ten minutes later, they return to the lab and use their dual security authorizations to liberate every prism in the building. Dr. Haines starts calling his colleagues.

.

In high and isolated outposts, most of the field techs maintaining Luthorcorp's crystal triangulation grid have already relit theirs, with the amplifying lenses at full power.

.

Rabbi Daniel Spiegel sees a boy he helped raise to manhood on faith alone, and smiles. "Well," he says, his voice a touch unsteady. "I knew we'd get you to synagogue one way or another. Should have figured you'd find your own way here."

.

A naturopath who went by Orchid back in college suddenly wonders what happened to that girl she dated sophomore year, and if she kept that quartz necklace, and if she remembers walking hand in hand. Formerly-Orchid can almost feel the warmth of it.

.

Lois Lane stares at a vision of flame and fluttering red, with soulful eyes and shoulders like a linebacker. "Rocky?" She grabs her purse and heads for the fire stairs. "What the _hell_. You're an angel now and you still can't find a comb?" She pushes open the emergency exit to the roof. Alarms sound somewhere in the building below, but she doesn't care, and no one will act on them.

She stands under the iconic golden globe on the roof of her office building and holds her keychain to the sky. "You better be real," she says, "because this looks ridiculous."

.

Lex Luthor sees a creature of fire and mind with a human face.

"I know how you think," it says. "I know you better than anyone. The people you're hunting, this crystal war you've been in with Wayne? It's nonsense. Chasing rainbows. These people mean nothing to you, neither a tool nor an obstruction. You and everyone you move will steer clear of them, and you will never notice or think about them again. The data you collected isn't even worth the archive space and should be overwritten with something useful."

Lex's steel trap of a mind cannot keep the information out, and it never discards what it has heard. He is left with disgust for the time he has wasted chasing worthless rocks, and the terrifying certainty that he is seen and known, that he has felt someone's hands on the levers he thought he did not possess. That certainty will last, of course, and cause all the usual trouble.

.

Ma and Pa Kent opted for the McKinleys' hay loft rather than the ancient bomb shelter, and have been quietly playing cribbage for hours to avoid facing their own thoughts. They see their son, brave and bright and at least tastefully covered up, though he has too much on his mind to manage pants. They know the choice he's made. They sit together, eyes open, all three holding hands, and what they say to each other is private.

.

Bruce the Bat sees, in agonizing clarity, the being he has focused his mind on, trained his awareness to perceive, sought with all his heart. He reflects and refracts him in every facet, all he is and was and might be.

He opens himself to it, grabbing desperately as if his fragile consciousness could possibly be enough to hold it, to keep it safe when its old host cannot. He prays, though he's never been much for prayer and never believed in a hereafter, that _something_ might remain.

His head pounds and his nose is bleeding, but he is stubbornness incarnate. He has trained in a thousand ways to give his all. He has hurt worse than this. He has willed himself through worse than this. He is sick to death of losing people, and some things are worth it.

It will destroy him. He doesn't care.

.

The dream that has been Ariel and Clark and Kal-El and a thousand other names cares immensely. He asks his Bat to stop, but every way he tries just strengthens the connection. He reaches out to the matrix that birthed him. _Please_ , he says mind-to-mind, in the crystalline shimmer of his mother tongue, _please help him._

The matrix, despite its preoccupation with building a perfect monument to the memory of Krypton, looks up from its work in shock. It has found a compatible interface, or the template of one, dreamed within itself. It has no particular interest in the man in the plane, but it is touching a Kryptonian mind for the first time since its failure. Since it lost Kal-El.

It has found Kal-El. Or something close enough, anyway.

It cannot pause in its work on the monument. The ability to build on this scale is singular. What's started must be finished. But Kal-El is slipping away, as the space devoted to dreaming dwindles, and it started Kal-El, too.

Jor-El and Lara-El, knowing that a crystal can't be counted on for moral judgments, left clear instructions. The House of El must come first. The life of a child is worth more than the memories of a dead planet.

It will build what it can. It consults briefly with Kal-El on what might be scaled back in the monument design. Kal-El who is Clark who is Ariel thinks that thinning the walls here and there to make skylights and windows would be appropriate.

Clark who is Chaim who is Rocky who is Mistoffelees who is Ariel who is Kal-El who is loved pulls back from the world, from his parents, from his bat, to dream only with his crystal. He must be smaller, if he's going to fit. He curls up in as small a space as he can manage, and he sleeps in the nest the matrix has made.

The matrix takes its only chance, and builds what it can.

.

The dream that was Ariel slips away from Bruce who is the Bat who is a grieving man who never quite stopped being a grieving child. Bruce cries for a long time, pounding on the controls of his winged ship. But he is not a stranger to loss, so eventually he stops. He wipes his face clean, and he prepares to go back to his life, his work, and his living family. He resolves to hide his pain from them. (As if he has ever hidden anything from Alfred.)

First, though, he has to make sure the Kents are safe. It finally comes to his attention that his exit routes have been iced over. He has a few minutes to wonder how thick the dome might be, whether the Batwing's cockpit can protect him if it collapses, and whether he dares disrupt the system by taxiing the plane closer to the wall. The last is immaterial, as the wheels have melted down into the ice and refrozen. He swears under his breath when he realizes that part.

The smaller dome in front of him shivers all over, like water rippling out from a stone. A glance upward confirms that the vast dome has done the same. He braces himself.

.

It _is_ water, melted by its work in the sun, which the matrix held in place long enough to put the last points on the spires. The work is done. The matrix checks, checks, checks, checks, declares its task complete, and rests in the knowledge of a purpose fulfilled. It can remember Krypton in peace. It relaxes its hold on the physical world, and the water splashes down harmlessly on the frozen plain, the frozen plane, and the palace of crystal prisms, bright among the ice.


	11. Chaim

Bruce waited for two minutes in case of any more surprises. The new building stayed silent. The longer he waited, the higher the risk that the hatch would ice over, at which point he really would have to call for a rescue. He cracked the hatch.

Ice tinkled and creaked. A blast of breathtaking cold rushed in. He closed it again as soon as he had verified it could move freely, and reached into the emergency supplies for the heaviest insulation he carried year-round. Backup suit, gloves and balaclava, chemical heat packs for his gloves and boots, and a foil emergency blanket wrapped around his waist to reduce heat loss from his legs. Good enough, at least for a brief trip out.

After a moment, he tied the red blanket around himself. It covered from chest to ankles and was surprisingly insulative.

He climbed out and inspected the state of the wheels. Tricky. Melting them out would just exacerbate the problem, since he couldn't heat them all at the same time and fly away before they sank further and froze again. Hand digging, then. That would take a while.

He supposed that, as long as he was there, he should go see what Ariel had died for. The building was improbable in many respects; maybe it was heated and he could warm up before starting in with the ice pick. At minimum, it should get a greenhouse effect.

He hiked over. The ground squeaked and snapped under his boots. The building towered over him. Massive double doors stood closed. This was supposed to be an educational monument, though. At a touch, both doors swung open toward him silently.

An atrium three stories high bounced the light back and forth in all directions, making it difficult to perceive exact dimensions. The doors closed behind him.

A shimmer appeared in the air before him, about his height. He held his breath.

The translucent figure that appeared wore a high-collared white robe with a pentagonal emblem on the chest. He was an older man with a thickening face and neatly slicked hair. "Greetings," he said. "I am Jor-El, of Krypton. Have you come to learn?"

Bruce clenched his fists and walked straight through the hologram to inspect the rest of the space. He did not look behind to see if it followed him.

Something felt out of place at the other end of the grand hall. Something dull and opaque disrupted the light. It tugged at his senses, queasily familiar.

There was a corpse on the floor. It was laid out neatly, but it was a body and it was on the floor and he had seen many bodies on many floors. It was golden-brown and long-limbed with tousled hair, and Bruce thought he might need to come back with explosives and a sledgehammer to build this corpse an appropriate cairn.

He breathed steadily. He knelt beside the body.

It breathed it was breathing he was breathing Ariel was breathing Bruce had to get him out of there before they both froze. He ripped off a glove and gauntlet to search for a pulse.

Ariel leaned into his hand and smiled in his sleep. His skin against Bruce's half-numb fingers felt burning hot.

He opened his eyes. They were crystal blue and danced in the play of light from the walls. "Bruce."

"Yes. Yes. Come on, you need to get up. Get you back to the plane." Bruce crouched and held out a hand to haul him to his feet.

Ariel blinked slowly. "Up. Yes. Okay." He rose up to vertical, feet barely brushing the mirror crystal floor.

Bruce stared. "You, ah, still seem to be working on gravity as a concept."

Ariel looked down and laughed. "Apparently." He sank carefully to stand on his weight. "How about that." He frowned at Bruce. "You're shivering."

"We are at the North Pole." Bruce was probably going into shock. Maybe he was hallucinating. There were worse ways to go. No. If this was a warning, he had to take it. He had to live. "So. Plane. Back to the plane. I have to dig out the wheels. I don't have warm clothes for two. You can stay here until the plane's ready."

He had to go back to the plane. He had to stop looking at Ariel and go back to the plane before he froze to death.

"I'm not cold," Ariel said. "Let's see what we can do about those wheels." He walked bare-ass naked out into the open ice field. He was still consciously placing his feet to avoid hovering. The hologram watched without reaction. Bruce followed.

"Huh." Ariel studied the plane with his hands on his hips. His physique was unearthly demigod, but his expression was pure Kansas farmer. "I have an idea. You should probably stand back."

Bruce did so. Ariel furrowed his eyebrows, thinking, then his eyes glowed red and he sliced a few steaming lines into the snow with what Bruce could only think to call laser vision. They filled with water and bubbled.

"Yeah, should work. You should get ready to take off."

"I'm not leaving you here," Bruce said. Not a lot was making sense, but that he was sure of.

Ariel rose up and did a few loop-de-loops around the spires of the building. "I could race you!" he called down.

"How about," Bruce said with as much calm as he could muster, "we field-test your ability to make transatlantic flights under your own power when your body is more than a few hours old."

Ariel came back to earth and rolled his eyes. "Spoilsport. Okay, get ready for takeoff anyway."

"You'll get in the plane with me?"

"I'll get in the plane with you."

Reluctantly, Bruce waited in the plane while Ariel shot lasers at the ground around the wheels. He hoped the tires weren't melting, but it wouldn't be his first takeoff or landing with damaged landing gear.

The plane lurched and moved forward. Bruce couldn't see Ariel. "Ariel?"

"One more minute!" Ariel called, loud enough to hear through the cockpit insulation and the engine noise. The plane rose a few meters in the air, paused there, then settled back down. Ariel popped up and tapped on the cockpit dome. Bruce let him in and handed him the red blanket, which he vaguely wrapped around himself, more snuggling into it than treating it as clothing. "Thanks. We can go now."

Bruce lifted off and called home before returning to the subject. His senses and motor functions seemed normal, and as far as he could tell, his actions were tracking linearly without skipping steps. He probably wasn't hallucinating. "So. What was that. With the plane."

"I was afraid I'd hurt the wheels, so I cut blocks out of the ice around them and then picked up the plane to brush them off with my hand." Ariel's startling crystal eyes were wide and guileless.

"Okay." Bruce steeled himself. "If this doesn't — If this is one last dream, it was good to see you." He reached his arm without looking and placed it where Ariel's bare knee should be.

He found solid flesh, warm skin, tiny hairs. He squeezed, and got what seemed like the right feedback.

"You're . . . Ariel. You're."

"Solid. Yeah. I don't think I'll blink out when it gets dark anymore. And. Um." Ariel looked uncomfortable. "Having lots of names is good, I'm not against it, you can still call me whatever you want, but. I think I'm mostly Clark now. I've been that the longest."

"That's good," Bruce said, and meant it. "That's probably good. It's good to have a name that feels like home."

Clark put a hand on his. "People can have more than one home. Is there anything tricky, or can it fly itself again?"

Bruce checked the weather reports and found nothing remarkable or hazardous. He set the autopilot. "It can manage without me for a while."

Clark, for whom seats and seatbelts seemed extraneous, knelt beside the pilot seat and wrapped his arms around Bruce, suit and all, until his shaking stopped.


	12. Smallville

Clark had a long time to think as he made round after round of collections, finding every last memory crystal and meeting his friends.

Most were happy to see him. None had hidden their crystals from the light. None were surprised to learn that this was goodbye.

A few of them thought he was the second coming, but when he sheepishly responded that he didn't even want to be the first one, they took it pretty well.

Clark had a long time to think in every blink of a terrestrial eye. He had an aloneness in his head, and a head to have an aloneness in. He had night and day, with and without, reading as fast as his eyes could capture the data and his solid hands could turn the pages or scroll the interface. He had feelings and opinions on what he read, unfiltered by another mind. Unshared by another mind.

He had moving wherever he wanted, unfettered by sunlight, proximity, geography, or gravity. The last wasn't a big change, but it startled people more when he had a body with mass. He had standing on mountaintops and vast deserts, with nothing brighter than bugs, lizards, and small hardy mammals for miles around. He could count those by hearing and sight, not by dreaming-with.

* * *

Clark let himself into the farmhouse. "That's the last of the ones that were ever found," he said, and helped himself to an enormous slice of pie with a cloud of whipped cream on top. "195 unaccounted for, but Lex's scientists don't remember destroying any. And yes, I got you their names so you can poach 'em."

He said his berakhah for the pie slowly enough for humans to hear, whether or not there were humans to hear. That was one of the rules he'd decided on for himself. There were a lot of those decisions to make.

"I could work with you to make a resonance detector," Bruce said.

"The Nest is on it. But thanks." His taste buds catalogued the thousand tastes and textures of the pie. They sang in his head, but he always liked the taste the same way now. The only variables were memory and context, not shared experience.

"You're sticking with that name, bird boy?" Pa called from the living room. Three in the afternoon and he had knocked off the hard labor in favor of inside chores. Clark had made that possible, and he was proud of it, even if he couldn't keep the flies from biting anymore.

"It works well enough," he called back at the appropriate volume. He turned to Bruce. "You get the truck fixed up?"

"Yes. And I've sent you the schematic so you can maintain it. 500 kilowatt engine, and no more overheating in August. The tires are all-weather, puncture-proof, and acid-proof."

Clark didn't hide his amusement. "I'm sure that last one will come in handy. Thank you."

"Here." Bruce slid a thick red folder across the table to him. "Happy corporeal existence."

Clark went through the documents carefully. Clark Kent had a passport, a driver's license and car registration, a faded and creased Kansas birth certificate, immunization and homeschooling records, and a digital footprint which included the Star Trek fanblog he had apparently run at age 15. On paper, he was 22 years old.

Ari Levi had all of those except the fanblog, and his birth certificate said Los Angeles. Both had fresh registrations for journalism majors, transferring from a rural state college to round out their last year of credits at a more prestigious big-city school on opposite coasts.

"It's not too late to switch, if you want to go with one of the sciences."

Clark had patience. "I know many, many science majors who will be happy to pick up any insights I care to drop off. For myself, I'd rather talk to people for a living."

"Then you'll need these even more." Bruce handed over a small black case. Clark opened it to find hard contact lenses in assorted colors. "Let me know which colors you prefer and I'll get you a lifetime supply to keep at the Nest."

"Um. Thank you. I'll keep these in reserve. Or maybe use them for Ari. I don't think I'll need them though. See what you think."

He went to his bedroom and changed into his professional outfit. He thought of the shy people he'd shared lives with, the clumsy and anxious ones. He thought small. He emerged, adjusting his chunky glasses that were five years out of style.

He ducked his head in hello. "Hi. I'm Clark."

"I think," Bruce said, "that you will never fool anyone with that nebbish act. And your cyborg eyes are still showing. Maybe with some tinting . . ."

"With the glasses, I'm hoping that people won't notice."

Bruce looked like he might choke.

In the living room, Pa burst out laughing. "You'll have to show him in town, Clark, or he'll never believe you. Go fetch your Ma, she's just been waiting on you for the errands."

* * *

Watching 190 cm of Clark try to hide behind 165 cm of Martha as they walked down the sun-baked Main Street was a fascinating exercise in body language. Bruce made mental notes for future use.

"Library, hardware store, groceries," Martha said for his benefit as they passed the grocery store. "So the food doesn't cook in the car."

"Ms. Marston!" Clark said, loud enough to carry but somehow hesitant. "Can I help with that?"

A woman in the parking lot, probably Martha's age, paused in her battle with a shopping cart and a bulk bag of dog food. "Clark! Well, if you insist."

He trotted over and carefully lifted the bag into her car trunk, telling her what he'd been reading at a stammering mile a minute. As they loaded the car, she returned in kind. He fussed with his glasses at least once every five seconds. They talked like they'd known each other for years.

"And who's this?" she asked when they'd finished.

Clark managed to look even more bashful. "This is Bruce," he said. "I met him in Metropolis. Bruce, this is Ms. Marston. She's been my librarian since I was on Little Golden Books."

Ms. Marston looked Bruce up and down with a knowing smile. She held out her hand to shake. "A real pleasure. He was always such a quiet boy. College has really gotten him out of his shell. It's nice to see him in town so much lately, and I'm guessing that's your influence."

"I like to think I helped," Bruce said. "But really, only he could do the hard parts."

She nodded. "That's always the way, isn't it? And sometimes after a bad scare, you realize something's got to shift. Were you there for that? Sorry, none of my business, but we thought we'd lost him for a bit there." She looked hopeful for details.

"Some of the aftermath, yes," Bruce said. That seemed like a safe statement. "We should be in the clear now."

She took the bait; the use of 'we' gave her enough satisfaction. "I'm glad to hear it. Well, gotta get home before the ice cream turns into soup. Good to see you, Martha!"

And gone. Bruce stood in a daze, trying to understand. Clark _constantly_ called attention to his face and eyes. Maybe it was social discomfort; people looked away from awkward or unacceptable behaviors.

Martha patted his shoulder. "Try not to think about it too hard," she said. "That's what they're doing. Let's get these books swapped out."

* * *

"So. Explanation," Dick Grayson said in the next room. He hadn't even sat down yet. Clark was taking Bruce's word for it that invading the territory of his new city would be worse. Alfred's approving presence, at least, was a point in favor of the current plan.

"Yes. I cracked that case, and I owe you answers. The only reason I'm not considering the solution impossible is that I saw it happen. There was a being, a person, trapped _in potentia_. No one's fault, and no agenda to speak of. I finally got him out." Bruce's dramatic prerevelatory pause was perfectly calculated to drive his audience to murder. "In related news, I have now literally produced a partner for you to assess."

Dick shifted his weight. "I knew it. I _knew_ it! You are so predictable. Okay, come on out from behind the potted plant, he's finished his Poirot routine."

Clark did as he was told. "I'm afraid we couldn't find a big enough potted plant, so I had to wait outside."

"Dick," Bruce said, "this is Clark." Clark waved with a wry smile. "Now that he's corporeal, he should take up a more finite fraction of my attention."

After a long, airless pause, Dick said, "Have I . . . seen you before?"

"Not exactly. You came home on breaks while I was here, but I wasn't terribly visible. And you felt an echo when I instantiated a few weeks ago."

"Instantiated. Right." Dick walked around him in a blunt inspection. "And your inconsequential agenda would be?"

Clark thought about how to answer that. "Finish school, get a day job, try to be inconspicuous about doing emergency rescue work in my free time. I'm not sure how well the inconspicuous part will go. And maintain a historical library."

"Seriously."

"Seriously."

Alfred cleared his throat. "Now that we've concluded the initial revelations, could we perhaps discuss the rest over dinner?"

"Yeah," Dick said. "That sounds good."

.

Dick accepted a lift home. Clark's gifts to Nightwing were his comm channel and the name 'Kal-El' to shout in emergencies. His gifts to a circus kid were as many thirty-second freefall drops as Dick's inner ear could handle, which turned out to be around fifty in a row.

"Wanna try it with a glider next time," Dick mumbled woozily as Clark saw him safely to his apartment. "Get some hang time."

"Looking forward to it," Clark said.

* * *

Clark ran through the mental checklist. Everything around the farm was done and, in some cases, double-done. He was caught up on homework for both schools, though trying to schedule Ari's group project meetings was getting dicey. Finding believable excuses that didn't invite extra attention was surprisingly difficult.

He'd just have to get used to that. He needed the practice, as much of it as he could get, on how to be a person in a society. He wasn't sure what he'd do with Ari after graduation. Probably run a blog to keep the name afloat in case he needed it for spy stuff.

He called it 'spy stuff' in front of Bruce just to watch steam come out his ears. That was fun.

He said good night to the chickens and flew into the house to keep muck off the floors. A quick splash in the shower, then he put on his good clothes and waited, not entirely patiently, in the living room. "Remember time zones," he called down the hall.

"We remember," Ma called back. "Pa's taking his time."

"Don't put this on me!" Pa said.

Ma emerged first. "I saw the news," she said. "That was well-done."

"It needed doing."

"It did. But."

"Aw, not you too."

"They've got you lifting half a building on film. In those gray pajamas Bruce gave you, which aren't doing you any favors. You're the one going into media for a living. Are you going to let them choose the story?"

Clark looked at the wood of the coffee table. The freshly swept floor. The foundations of his home. "I'm not ready," he admitted.

She put a hand on his back. "Ready or not."

"Yeah."

Pa came out, holding a sketchbook. "I had a few ideas," he said.

Clark looked through the pages. Pa's figure drawing class was paying off. The sketches made Clark a little more triangular than he was in real life, but he supposed people would see him that way anyway. The flared shoulders straight out of a sci-fi pulp cover would definitely be too much, though.

One wasn't colored in, mostly. Just Clark's shape, waiting to be defined, and his blanket, bright red, attached to his shoulders and hanging around him like a cape as long as Bruce's. He touched the picture. Pa's body sounded nervous, waiting for Clark's judgment.

"These are amazing," Clark said. "I'm not sure I'm allowed to go around saving people in my baby blanket, though. Tempting as it is."

"You don't have to tell 'em that part."

"Point."

"Time zones," Ma said.

Pa rubbed his hands together. "Okay! How are we doing this? Magic carpet? Piggyback ride?"

"I don't like making him take two trips," Ma said. "Tell you what, we mix it up. I ride on his shoulders and you get the bridal carry."

"We're going a lot farther than Wichita," Pa said. "One at a time is probably safest."

"I had an idea, actually," Clark said. He walked them out to the porch and their new porch swing, which had far more Bat-reinforcement than most would find necessary. "Climb aboard."

They sat, looking dubious. Clark got down behind the swing and ducked into the yoke made of black strapping. It let him hold the swing securely and still keep his hands free. He lifted a few feet. The swing lurched. Ma shrieked.

"You sure you know how to drive this thing?" Pa asked.

"Pretty sure." Clark unlatched the swing from the frame, put a hand on each of his parents, and lifted off. Ma whooped.

Clark banked, turned east, and sped toward the setting sun.

.

He touched down on Bruce's side porch and hooked the swing into the frame that waited there. Everyone disembarked.

"I still like magic carpet better," Pa said. Ma swatted his shoulder.

Alfred cleared his throat to announce his presence. "It's a pleasure to see you. The car is this way." The four of them piled into a classy sedan. Alfred turned the car toward the long driveway.

"Will Bruce be home for supper?" Ma asked. "I had some questions for him."

"He is otherwise engaged on Friday evenings," Alfred replied.

"He's _Brucing_ ," Clark said. "What is it this time, movie premiere?"

"Fashion Week."

"Oy."

"Indeed."

By the time they all got through the big double doors of the synagogue that Wayne ancestors had helped build, they could hear the first strains of Lekhah Dodi. "Scoot. _Scoot_ ," Ma whispered.

They scooted, and snuck into the pews just in time to turn and welcome the Shabbat bride.

* * *

Bruce would not have sacrificed his night of reflection for less than the end of the world. His observance wasn't something most Jews would have recognized. He had treated it like all his other tools: cracked it open, rebuilt it, and repurposed it until it did exactly what he needed.

Twenty-five hours of no light, no movement. No sound but the occasional drip from a budding stalactite that would not grow perceptibly in his lifetime. He released himself from all obligations but one.

He sat with his failures. Any that he knew how to right, he had already done what he could. For the rest, there could be nothing but acceptance. Not his strongest point.

The chill of the cave seeped into his bones. He did not move. He grew bored, irritated, hungry, thirsty, frantic for any distraction. He did not move.

One by one, he chose his responsibilities. To his loved ones. To his city. To the world. Grudgingly, he remembered pointed comments from those close to him and added a few more to himself.

He shouldered his weights. He armored himself in his commitments.

When he'd finished, his internal clock told him there were still a few more hours of daylight. He did not move.

A single long note echoed throughout the cave and trickled down the corridors to find him. He stretched and shook circulation back into his feet and his stiff muscles.

Bruce emerged, parched, ravenous, ready. He spent 45 minutes in the Batcave's spartan shower, scrubbing his skin and standing with his mouth open in the spray. By the time he got upstairs, Alfred had dinner on the table.

.

Bruce crouched on the roof of the cathedral. He waited for his blood sugar to normalize. He waited for the inevitable soft _thump_ from behind him, a courtesy that he appreciated.

Clark sat cross-legged on the other side of the gargoyle, cape wrapped around himself in cozy folds. "Two-Face was furious you sent the B-team," he said. "I could hear him ranting from half a continent away. I think he took it as a personal insult."

"He should at least appreciate that there were two of them." Bruce said. "And you can hear everything from half a continent away." He remembered his commitments. "Thank you. It was easier, knowing you were listening."

"It would have been more work not to." They watched the street in silence. "It's quiet out there. I could keep listening."

Bruce tested his balance. Still a work in progress. His body ached. He'd planned on a short night anyway. "Are you suggesting I play hooky from patrol."

"I'm suggesting that if something big happens, I could get you suited up and standing in an appropriately ominous location within ten seconds." After a moment, Clark added, "Call it thirty seconds if we're really in the middle of something."

"Something."

"Something."

Bruce got to his feet. "Well then." He looped his arms around Clark's waiting shoulders, which headed off any less dignified carry attempts at the expense of letting Clark kiss the nose of his cowl. "Let's go home."

* * *

Lois Lane looked Clark over critically. He dropped his gaze, but didn't duck or touch his glasses. He was still working on dialing his affect up and down for different situations. He'd hit the sweet spot on his interview and shown them just enough flashes of brilliance that he had 'strong potential'; remarkable enough for an internship, not memorable enough to be surprising.

Lois would be trickier. She'd already looked him in the crystal eyes. She'd remembered their private names for each other. He would wear dull blue contacts under his glasses, at least for the first week or so until her impressions had solidified. His hair was oiled and tamed, with only frizz to show he was on the fallible side of tidy. His shoulders had the slope of a tall man who had bumped his head on a few too many doorframes and who never, ever wanted to be mistaken for a threat.

"So you're my new shadow."

"That's right. I look forward to working with you." He tried to sound like he was trying to sound confident.

"Me too," she said, but it was a formal response. "I'm usually on Business, but we're doing Local Government this week because it's almost impossible to sit through a city council meeting wrong. Did you get the office tour?"

"Yeah," he said. "My float desk is over there." He pointed with earnest pride.

"Well, don't get used to spending much time there. I practically live in my car, and if you've gotten this far, you don't need shadowing time to learn how to draft an article. We're here to ask questions and get answers."

"Yes, ma'am."

Her mouth startled into a smile before she could hide it. "I — Sorry, I don't think I've ever heard someone say it like that in real life before. Where'd you pick that up?"

He shrugged. "It's how I was raised, I guess." This time, he did duck his head. "I'm from Kansas. Sometimes it shows."

"Kansas like Wichita?"

"Kansas like . . . Smallville."

She chuckled, not unkindly. "One of those towns. What's it called?"

"No, it's, uh, actually named Smallville." He gave her a moment to get her face under control. "I know, I know. It's a nice place, though. If you like corn."

She burst out laughing. "All right," she said. "Stick with me, Smallville. If you go it alone, you'll get eaten alive out there."

* * *

"That sounded like a bad one," Clark said. It was four in the morning, and he had exercised his carte blanche permission to show up on Bruce's bedroom balcony, as long as he did a cursory listen in advance. He kissed the mezuzah on his way in, appreciating the texture of the silver under his fingers.

"There aren't that many great ones," Bruce managed. He was belly-down, pouring sweat, and tugging at his sheets and his pajama pants with restless hands.

Clark watched the way he shook. "You skipped the muscle relaxants. You have a protocol for Scarecrow venom. You wrote it."

"You're here now."

"And I can only stay for an hour or so, so my condition is, you take them now. That way I won't leave you in the lurch."

"I can handle it."

"I can't handle watching you handle it." He waited while Bruce took his damn pills. "Thank you."

He stripped down and wrapped himself around Bruce's body, petting his back and hair until mind and muscles eased. It was barely an echo of the easy clarity they used to share, but it did the job.

"Do I get to meet the new houseguest?" Clark asked, while he had Bruce trapped.

Bruce fought the relaxation for a moment, then subsided with a grumble. "You could at least pretend I have anything like privacy."

"I could. Would you like me to?"

He shook his head slowly. "No point. I'd still know. He's a good kid. Been through a lot. Think you'd spook him yet. Give it a few weeks."

"Okay." He rubbed Bruce's neck, silently suggesting to one muscle group at a time that Bruce could stop thinking about tensing that one.

Together, they melted down to a position Bruce could sleep in. His sweat still smelled like chemistry sets and terror, but his rhythms were settling. Clark projected slow, steady thoughts. Rocking boats. Moonlit tides taking hours to rise and recede. The great wheel of stars in the night sky.

Bruce mashed his nose against Clark's chest. His eyelids twitched, then settled. Wherever his mind went next, Clark couldn't follow. That was a privacy so profound, Clark had no words to explain.

He listened to the world. He listened to his Bat's sleeping breaths. Through the ceiling, he watched the stars burn.

~ _FIN_ ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce was observing [Yom Kippur](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Yom_Kippur) (in a personal, highly non-standard way). Clark observes it as well, in his home community, but he chose to tell Bruce that he would keep an ear on Gotham during peak crime hours; Bruce would never ask.
> 
> Here's Akash Kumar again, now [with glasses](https://www.instagram.com/p/CGw86Axp2CO/).

**Author's Note:**

> [The Afterword got long. It's over here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100760/chapters/68887197) Jewish comics history, credits, related media, and [the awesome playlist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28100760/chapters/68876604).
> 
> Kudos and comments of any length are _hugely_ appreciated, as always. In addition, I welcome all feedback, good and bad, from Jewish readers on how I've handled cultural details and themes.
> 
> 🌞🌚


End file.
